


Dreaming Wide Awake

by thewaythatwerust



Series: Dreaming Wide Awake [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Clint Barton Is a Human Disaster, Clint has a problem with gravity, Come as Lube, Dirty Talk, Dream Sex, Drunken Flirting, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Gay Chicken, Getting Together, Halloween, Happy Ending, Head Injury, Humour, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Mother Hen Bucky Barnes, Multiple Orgasms, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Not Canon Compliant, Pining, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Slow Burn, Switching, Temporary Amnesia, Unreliable Narrator, Wet Dream, WinterHawk Bingo, crack adjacent, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-01-13 01:47:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21236108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaythatwerust/pseuds/thewaythatwerust
Summary: "Are you having wet dreams about me again, Barton?" Nat's voice is light and teasing, calling up the data point in her brain labelled 'things a best friend will never let you forget'.Clint sighs. Okay, so he kind of deserves that. He did have that one dream, but to be fair, he'd had a lot of pizza that night and everyone knows cheese before bed messes with your subconscious. "No." He rakes frustrated fingers through his short hair, murmuring softly, "Not you.". . .Or, the one wherein Clint has very interesting dreams, frequent fights with gravity, suffers slight memory loss, and finds himself wrapped in Bucky's ridiculously thick arms. Repeatedly.  Featuring clumsy, pining, drunk and thirsty!Clint, and with their powers combined, levels up to idiot in love!Clint.





	1. Going Under

**Author's Note:**

> So, this fic is :  
i. Not canon-compliant (Barton is not married with children/retired).  
ii. No set time frame - everyone from the extended universe knows each other, there's no jolly giant grape, and everyone has made up and are all Avenging BFFs again.  
iii. Not me abandoning Steve/Bucky; my flag is still firmly planted in Stucky, but my... interests were piqued and this happened.  
iv. My first voyage on this ship, for WinterHawk bingo : Feelings Denial. 
> 
> Tags are for the fic as it's planned at the moment, however more will be added later and the rating is subject to change, given my propensity to get lost in smutland (so if you're checking back/subscribing, please heed the tags before proceeding on each chapter).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At first he'd been intrigued --he never usually remembered anything about his dreams-- but after a week Clint is just exhausted. Every morning he wakes, hard and aching or soft and spent, broken fragments of memories flashing through him, desire burning and beading on his skin.

Clint is exhausted. He feels like he hasn't slept in days. Seven days, to be precise. Since the dreams had started. Reaching a hand to knead the tightly bunched muscles at the back of his neck, he yawns quietly. Not quietly enough.

Natasha swivels on the too-big, too-expensive, too-obviously-Tony couch, peering at him like a bug under a microscope. "What's with you lately? You look like shit."

Clint's lips twist at Nat’s words as much as her innate ability to be all sweetness and absolutely no sugar. "You ever have --" his pause draws a curious eyebrow raise, but he ignores it, picking at the thread of thought, weighing up how much to unravel. "--weird dreams?"

"Define _weird_."

His head tilts to the side, eyes losing focus as shards of dream-memories slice in front of him, sharp and vivid. "_Disturbing _."

"Are you having wet dreams about me again, Barton?" Her voice is light and teasing, calling up the data point in her brain labeled _things a best friend will never let you forget. _

Clint sighs. Okay, so he kind of deserves that. He did have that _one_ dream, but to be fair, he'd had a lot of pizza that night and everyone knows cheese before bed messes with your subconscious. "No." He rakes frustrated fingers through his short hair, murmuring softly, "Not you."

Nat’s body jerks upright on the couch like a marionette brought to life by invisible strings, her piqued interest a palpable current charging the air between them. "Who?"

A groan hitches a ride on a resigned huff. He should have left the thread alone. "Forget it."

"That bad, huh?" The words roll off her tongue coated with sweet amusement that turns his gut sour. She taps her chin slowly with a perfectly manicured fingernail. "Wanda?"

The hard no on Clint's face makes her chuckle.

"Sharon?"

Clint leans back against the couch, lip curling up at Nat's woefully inaccurate aim. 

"Danvers?"

The smirk pushes his cheek up further. Oh, he is going to use this astounding failure against her later.

"Okoye?"

Clint reaches back, interlocking his fingers behind his neck. "That's oh-for-four, Nat. You really should stop. You're just embarrassing yourself at this point."

Two perfectly sculpted brows pull together like they're discussing alternate possibilities for the question at hand. "Help me out here, Barton. I'm running low on estrogen club members. Unless..." Her eyes dance over his face like she is reading a mission report. "_Oh_," she breathes softly, "Stark?"

At his instinctual recoil, she laughs, eyes lit up by the burning curiosity he can see raging through her. Shit.  
_  
_ "No? Well at least we have a baseline, now. And, for the record Barton, _ don't ask, don't tell _ is all well and good, but since I've _ been asking _ and you've pitched your tent firmly in the _not telling_ camp regardless, there’s an all-expenses-paid guilt trip coming your way later."

Clint sits up on the chair, a tight smile on his lips. He's glad Nat isn't pushing the subject, grateful her single-minded focus is, for once, landing in his favor. She’s too wrapped up in ferreting out answers to her current query to worry about adding more questions to the list. For now.

It's not that he's been keeping her purposely out of the loop of his love-life, it's just, well, there isn't much_ love _in his_ life _to speak of. Casual sex, sure there's plenty of that, but nothing to write home about. No one to bring home to his completely dysfunctional super-family. He has no shame about his dual-pronged sexuality, he just prefers to keep his business, _ his business_. While it would be nice to have someone to talk to at times, it's not really information he wants as common knowledge. Nat has so many secrets of her own, he doesn't want to unduly burden her with his.

Nat's voice, bright with expectation, breaks through his musings. “Steve, right? That would make sense. I swear the A stands for Ass, capital A. No wonder he wears his suit a size too small."

It's Clint's turn to arch an eyebrow.

Nat just smirks at him. "What? Like you _ hadn't _ noticed."

Names come at him rapid-fire as intelligent eyes narrow, searching his reactions for clues to the answer dangling, tantalizingly, just beyond reach. "Bruce? Rhodey? Scott?" --Clint can't hold back the chuckle at that one-- "T'challa? Thor?"

Clint rises to his feet, unable to bear the scrutiny any longer. His muscles are coiling with tension, his pulse speeding up as each name is checked off the list, knowing it is only a matter of time before she gets to... He clears his throat. "I'm going to go grab some coffee, you want?"

"We have coffee here. Twenty different varieties."

The mocking tone is just a cover for the abject failure Nat must be feeling at having been unable to glean his secret, Clint is sure of it. But still… He shrugs. Stalemate. "You know that gourmet stuff Tony drinks is a little too _ Tony _for my taste."

He knows Nat knows the real reason for his sudden need to escape the tower, and watches as her brows and lips dance a sarcastic tango.

"Mmm, and we've established that Tony is definitely not to your tastes."

Clint laughs --it's hollow but it still counts-- and heads for the door. He isn't quite ready to share this with anyone yet. Not even Nat. Not when he isn't sure what_ this _is.

Nat's voice trails after him. "I am going to find out you know..."

. . . 

Clint strides past the elevator, shoving through the door to the stairwell, needing time to wrangle his wayward thoughts. He's being ridiculous. A few days of dreams and he's turning into a damned school girl, daydreaming about someone that he absolutely, positively, categorically cannot have, and should not be wasting time thinking about.

And yet...

Each day Clint is spending more and _more_ time thinking about him -- calling up memories from the broken dreams that had been haunting him for the past week. He swallows roughly and shakes his head in a vain attempt to clear it. The beautiful face and piercing blue eyes swim up from the depths of his mind and he stumbles, barely catching himself before he actually flies down his current flight of stairs. His legs still, chest heaving, mind racing. 

At first, he'd been intrigued --he never usually remembers his dreams at all-- but after a week he is just exhausted. Every morning he wakes, hard and aching or soft and spent, broken fragments of memories flashing through him, desire burning and beading on his skin, feeling like he hasn't slept a wink. 

Ignoring the blush biting its way down his neck, a neon sign advertising the direction his thoughts had taken, he doubles his efforts. Taking two stairs at a time, he tries to outpace the images running through his mind.  
  
He's more than a little out of breath when he finally pushes through the ground floor door, because damn if he hadn't underestimated the actual amount of steps between him and the ground. The sheen of sweat clinging to his skin promptly washes away with the fat drops of water splashing onto him from above. _ Of fucking course. _Clint turns his gaze skyward to the angry grey clouds now peppering his woefully unprepared outfit with rain. They had moved in fast and he hopes they move on just as quickly, he isn't particularly fond of wet weather.

Wrapping his arms around himself, staving off the chill that comes from cold water meeting heated skin, he makes his way toward his favorite coffee shop waiting on the next block. For all his grace and accuracy in battle, he is surprisingly accident-prone in everyday life, and he and slippery surfaces aren't exactly on the best of terms. He's getting wet enough as it is, he doesn't need to compound the problem by falling into the puddles of water gathering rapidly on the sidewalk.

After several minutes of careful stepping, Clint stands, drenched, opposite _ The Burnt Bean_, now offering not only caffeine but the promise of dryness and warmth.

Scanning for a break in the traffic, squinting against the tiny water daggers stabbing at his face, his attention snags on a figure standing outside the shop, unmoving in a sea of huddled people rushing to get out of the rain. Clint sees those beautiful blue eyes, the eyes from his dreams, lock on to his own.

The goosebumps that dance along his skin have nothing to do with the icy rain now falling in sheets from above. Coffee forgotten, he stares, mind reeling, oblivious to the people bustling around him.

_ Bucky. _

What is he doing here? Clint hardly ever sees him these days, in the flesh, anyway. Bucky and Steve had been out on some super-secret super-soldier mission that's way beyond his pay grade. But now, after spending a week in his head, Bucky is suddenly standing in front of him like he's been conjured by thought alone, staring at Clint like he knows exactly what he's been doing in those dreams.

The thought clicks in his mind, turns over, and like a combination lock sliding into place, his subconscious opens and unbroken dream-memories come flooding out at him, knocking the breath from his lungs. Almost knocking him off his feet.

_ Strong hands, wet mouths, tight heat, broken shouts of pleasure. Bucky's name on his lips. _

White noise surges through him, and Clint is stepping off the curb before he's aware he’s moving. Water sloshes over his boots, soaking his jeans, and freezing the skin beneath as he runs heedlessly through the puddles on the slick asphalt.

His heart is pounding painfully, throbbing so loudly in his ears that by the time the honk of the horn and squeal of tires registers in his mind, it's too late. The world tilts fiercely and the rain-stained world fades to black.

  
  



	2. Didn't Know That I was Going Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint attempts to compose himself in the brief moments it takes Bucky to shut the door, place the walking aids in the truck bed, and stride to the driver's side door. But as Bucky's body slides onto the seat beside him, brushing up against him, his heady scent filling the small space, Clint's composure just fucks off right out the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For WinterHawk again; Bridal Carry!

After being locked up in a hospital room for twenty-four hours the sun is blinding. Letting the strong light filter through his closed lids, Clint grimaces at the dull throbbing in his head. Bright lights and head injuries? Not good bedfellows.

Standing outside the hospital, balancing precariously on one leg with the aid of two crutches, he drags his eyes open and squints against the glare, searching for a taxi. He becomes increasingly aware of the people rushing past him, sending openly curious and sympathetic glances his way. Clint knows why. He looks like hell.

His skin is sporting an impressive array of cuts and abrasions of varying sizes and depths --all peppered with an eclectic mix of bandages and surgical tape strips-- and he is working on a nice collection of bruises.

To add insult to injury, he’s leaving in the same clothes he'd arrived in, though now much worse for wear: wrinkled, torn, and covered in a patchy crust of mud. The left leg of his jeans had been severed at the knee and in lieu of denim, scrapes and mottled skin trail like grisly breadcrumbs down to the only clean thing on him, a hospital-issued cast. It's his left ankle that had landed him the damned crutches.

Not that he should be complaining. He's leaving the hospital a day after an extremely serious accident. The doctors are at a loss. They'd put him through so many tests looking for internal bleeding and other serious trauma that Clint is sure it's going to make a small dent even in Stark's bank account, and he almost feels guilty for sending the bill his way. Almost.

He'd felt sorry for one particularly confused-looking doctor who had informed him that he was mostly fine. However that feeling had been short-lived, fading quickly when he was informed he had a concussion and they’d be keeping him overnight for observation. Just in case--"one can never be too careful with a head injury".

Clint knows he is lucky --it’s a miracle, really-- when a car and a human had a throwdown, the car always came out the victor. And yet, he is leaving with nothing more than a broken ankle, a touch of amnesia, and a truly spectacular headache. He doesn't mind the amnesia too much, having a week of his life erased is a small price to pay in the grand scheme of things. The crutches, however, would take a little warming up to.  
  
Doing his best to stay upright, Clint surrenders all hopes of hailing a cab, the drivers throwing one look his way and putting him quickly in the hell no basket. Sighing heavily, he mentally kicks himself (in his mind he has two working feet) for not taking Nat up on her offer for a lift home. But she'd had Avenging to do and to be completely honest, he isn't sure he could take the playful ribbing in his current state of_ done_. So now, he's going to have to walk. Well, hop.

Lowering his gaze to the sidewalk to better plan the placement of his new accessories, he hop-jumps forward experimentally. When he doesn't land on his already bruised derrière, he takes another step-jump forward, and another, building momentum as he goes.

Absurdly pleased with his progress, he takes a bigger hop forward... only to crash into an extremely solid wall. Clint's breath leaves him in an_ oof_, feeling the crutches slip from under his arms as they windmill desperately in an attempt to fight the pull of gravity.

His attempts are not successful.

He feels himself falling, eyes scrunching in anticipation of the hard smack of concrete against his already battered body, but his expectations come up empty. He feels two strong arms wrapping around him, stopping his descent and holding him steady, frozen inches from the ground.

Clint's eyes flash open as his mind churns and spits out three realizations in quick succession: one, the wall he had run into is actually a very masculine chest, two, the arms encircling his waist appeared to be attached to said chest, and three, the very masculine chest comes with a very beautiful, very familiar face.

_ "Barnes?" _Clint winces at the breathless croak masquerading as his voice. But that’s to be expected, he reasons, the air has just been knocked out of him, it has nothing to do with the light blue eyes staring down at him, sending shivers racing over his skin.

"Are you alright?" Bucky makes no move to lift Clint from his ridiculous tango-dip pose, arms still wrapped around him.

Clint nods, his mouth suddenly too dry to speak. This is ridiculous. This is_ Bucky_. Why the hell is his brain suddenly short-circuiting? Maybe there's more damage than they thought. Should he check himself back in and get them to re-run the tests?

"Barton?"

Clint blinks out of his internal monologue. He can feel the slow burn in his cheeks. Great. Clearing his throat, he finally finds his admittedly raspy voice. "All good."

The sudden rush of blood in his head is from the quick lift to a standing position and absolutely nothing to do with the way Bucky's mouth pulls up at the corners. At least that's what he tells himself.

"You sure?" Bucky's eyebrow quirks up, skepticism shining clear and bright in light eyes.

Embarrassed and more than a little confounded by his brain's --and his body's-- reaction to Bucky, Clint nods. A short, jerky motion that carries no conviction whatsoever. He takes a step back. The yelp of pain when his injured foot touches the ground is followed swiftly by a dark "Or maybe not."

A slight vibration rumbles through him and it takes Clint a moment to realize that Bucky is laughing, the reverberations echoing through him, conducted by the large hands still attached to his body. Clint blinks stupidly, his brain struggling to accept that Bucky is capable of actual laughter. The dark, low sound soaks through his skin, settles into his belly, and unfurls in a distressingly delicious way. The warm feeling quickly gives way to a sickening clench as he is lifted into the air. His chest crushes against Bucky's much broader one as strong arms come to slide over his back and tuck under his thighs.

Years from now Clint will maintain that he absolutely did not squeak --that is just the sound of air leaving a body in a surprised whoosh, ask anyone_ \- _\- but he clamps his mouth shut regardless, lest it happen again while he is carried, like a damn giddy bride being escorted over the threshold on her wedding night, toward a vacant bench some fifteen feet away. He tries, really tries, to ignore the warm, hard flesh pressing against him, and the delightfully musky, smokey scent that makes his nostrils twitch as his face is all but pressed into Bucky's neck.

Clint knows he should be furious --or at the very least moderately insulted-- at being manhandled without so much as a warning, or, he muses, permission. But_ should be _had never been his strong suit. Instead, he finds himself marveling at the ease with which Bucky had lifted him, no strain evident in his gait, no effort showing in the steady rise and fall of his chest.

When Bucky deposits him on the bench, and strong hands slide off his body, Clint knows he shouldn’t feel a pang of loss. And yet...

Bucky moves with a grace that should not be possible of man his size. Clint's gaze follows Bucky’s purposeful movements as he fetches the wayward crutches, tight muscles rippling under smooth skin efficiently, no wasted motion. The black on black, jeans and pullover combination, does wonders to ratchet up his dark and brooding aesthetic_. Jesus, Barton, what's next, you're going to write him a poem? _ Clint drops his gaze to the crutches clamped in one large hand, his efforts to corral his unruly thoughts about as successful as herding cats.

Having completed his mission, Bucky stands, looking down at him, blue eyes reflecting light like a fucking suncatcher. As Bucky's lips --always tipped up at the corners naturally, Clint is now realizing-- edge up further, a shiver dances up his spine to the base of his skull, and pulls at a forgotten thread in his mind. It slips through his fingers before he can grasp it, leaving only an exquisitely seductive sense of déjà vu.

"...Barton?"

The sound of Bucky's voice breaks through the fog in his mind. "Hmm? Yes? What? Sorry?" Clint bites down hard on his tongue, half to stop the stream of_ moron _currently slipping past his lips, and half in retaliation for letting the stream start in the first place.

"I asked if you're sure you’re okay? You seem a little out of it."

"Oh, yeah. Never better. Sorry about, y'know, crashing into you back there. I'm kinda new to those." His head jerks toward the crutches still held captive in Bucky's hand and winces as his brain protests the sharp movement with a painful thump inside his skull.

"Do you want a ride?"

Clint bites harder at his tongue as his brain drops past his feet, all the way to the gutter and rolls around, reveling in the images that burn in his mind, slowly filtering down to wash over his cheeks._ "Uh..." _

"I've got Sam's truck and I'm heading to Stark's anyway..." he trails off, running his non-shiny, non-crutches-wielding-hand through his hair. "I mean, if you haven't made other arrangements?"

Clint hesitates. He knows getting into a car with someone you didn't know well is right up there with taking candy from strangers on the _ Just Say No _ list. Then again, Bucky is hardly a stranger, and though he isn't quite sure why, Clint's body seems very amenable to getting to know him a whole lot better on all kinds of levels... and surfaces... in a variety of positions.

The flush spreads down his neck. He releases his tongue and bites at his lip instead.

Bucky flashes his way-too-white-to-be-real-smile --Clint wonders idly if the serum is behind his perfect teeth, too-- "I promise I only bite when invited, and I floss regularly."

Yeah, so that didn't help. At all. Clint's only aware of his teeth splitting his lower lip when the metallic tang reaches his tongue. Fuck. He takes stock of his options. On one hand, it could be argued that Barnes is flirting with him. Maybe? If he squints? Or perhaps that is just Bucky's 1940s sense of humor? In any case, it makes him feel off-balance, not something an archer is used to feeling, not something he is overly fond of now he is. On the other hand, he should have died twenty-four hours ago, but here he is, alive and mostly unscathed. Who is he to look this particular gift horse in its very dazzling mouth?

Clint nods slowly, mindful of his vengeful head. "If it's not too much trouble."

Before Bucky's answering smile fades, Clint finds himself once again wrapped securely in those ridiculous arms.

Somehow managing to keep both Clint and the crutches aloft, Bucky strides toward Sam's old, dark blue pickup parked nearby. Clint silently berates himself for not recognizing it earlier, blaming the head injury rather than the super-soldier currently pressing against him, because when you have an excuse, you take the excuse.

He's both immensely relieved and sorely disappointed when Bucky opens the passenger side door and deposits him carefully, mindful of his ankle, on the worn but clean seat. Bucky reaches over him to fasten the belt around him and Clint is once again confronted with_ Eau De Barnes, _ now mixing with the fruity smell of shampoo drifting over to him as long hair tickles his skin. The resulting throbbing pain is not in his head. _ Well... _

Clint clears his throat.

He attempts to compose himself in the brief moments it takes Bucky to shut the door, place the walking aids in the truck bed, and stride to the driver's side. But as Bucky's body slides onto the seat beside him, brushing up against him, his heady scent filling the small space, Clint's composure just fucks off right out the window.

“_Oh, Fuck. _”

Bucky's hands still on the keys, dangling from the ignition. "Barton?"

Clint squeezes his eyes shut, only now realizing his words had fallen out of his mouth instead of staying in his brain where they belonged. "I -- uh, yeah, just, y'know, painkillers wearing off." His fingers scramble over the window down button, desperately needing fresh air to dilute the level of_ Bucky _surrounding him. He jabs it once. And again. And _ again. _

Bucky notices Clint hammering at the button and chuckles. "Yeah, that's not gonna work. Blown fuse. It's been on Sam's to fix list for awhile. I can turn on the air if you're hot?"

_ I'm not hot, you are. _

Clint's head whips toward Bucky, squinting against the _ thud thud thud _ of his angry brain, checking to see that those particular words had heeded the_ internal memo only _designation this time. Bucky's face is away from Clint, focusing beyond the windshield as he pulls the car out into traffic, but the lack of reaction is enough to allow Clint's lungs to fill with a steadying breath.

_What the actual fuck, Barton? _ He wonders vaguely if this is a reaction to the meds they'd given him. Is he having an allergic reaction? Shortness of breath, check. Difficulty swallowing, check. Clint clicks his tongue thoughtfully against the roof of his mouth. They hadn't warned him about sudden increase of libido or possible cognitive issues regarding the absolute loss of control of his mind-to-mouth filter though. He'd have to check the pamphlet they'd given him, currently tucked away in the back pocket of his jeans. With his luck, he will probably be sporting hives by the time they get home.

Rolling his head to the side, Clint lets it come to rest against the window; as far from Bucky as he can get. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Bucky reach over and press a button. Cool air floods into the truck cab, picking up Bucky's scent and pelting him in the face with it. Well, fuck. Clint sighs. It’s going to be a very long journey home.

  
  



	3. In Too Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky’s stormy eyes drop to Clint's hand, still held aloft between them, and Clint's brain stutters. Suddenly he's reaching up to slide his hands around Bucky's neck, his interlocking arms cushioned by the silky sheet of hair trapped between his skin and Bucky's.
> 
> Oh, shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. Should I apologize for updating too quickly? I'm not sure. It's just... Clint won't leave me alone. *shakes fist at him* I have Stucky angst to write you little shit, learn to share.
> 
> For Winterhawk Bingo : Beefy Bucky Barnes.
> 
> .

The ride home is eventful in its uneventfulness.

Clint keeps his jaw clenched, his teeth gatekeeping his unpredictable words, not wanting to level up his_ idiot status _in Bucky's eyes. Not that Bucky is eyeing him. Or talking, for that matter. He didn't expect small talk from the big man, but he's a little stunned when Bucky starts humming a tune softly.   
  
Clint spends the remainder of the trip straining to catch the melody, half-hidden by the churn of fans, grateful to shift his brain's focus to something other than the game of _ top or bottom?: Bucky edition _currently playing out in his mind.

By the time the truck pulls into the parking level, Clint knows it's a song he's heard but the name is escaping the grabby fingers of his brain. He's sure the title will come to him later, no doubt in the middle of the night when it's no longer being chased and no longer needed.  
  
The truck stops before Clint's mind does, and Bucky is once again disappearing from the seat next to him and reappearing at the now open door beside him like a magic trick. Clint isn't sure he'll ever get used to the speed and silence with which Bucky moves. But he could get used to the way Bucky presses against him, reaching down to his hip, unsnapping the belt that tethers him in place, warm fingers trailing over his chest as they ride the strap back to its home beside his shoulder. They remain in place, the silver buckle engulfed in the hand now resting against his upper arm.

A heaviness settles in his sternum and Clint lets it press down on him, anchoring him to the seat as he stares up at Bucky mutely.

Bucky's already impressive chest swells as he drags in a long, slow breath, stills then falls back down to its never-gonna-be-regular size. The hand against him slides down his arm, over his hip and slides under his thighs at the same time he feels a warmth running across his back. Bucky's hands find purchase and lift Clint from his seat, and he is mildly surprised to find he hasn't worn a groove into Bucky's chest with the amount of time he's spent crushed against it in the last hour. He feels slightly giddy, laying the blame on the spin Bucky executes as he extends his leg backward, pressing the door closed with the flat of his boot.

"I can walk, y'know," Clint offers, trying to inject a little steel into the words, sighing when they come out molten instead.

Bucky grunts. "Yeah, that was a stellar demonstration this morning. I don't have time to wait around to catch you when you trip over yourself."

Clint's hands, until this moment tucked awkwardly into his own chest, punch at Bucky's arm halfheartedly. "I didn't trip over myself, I tripped over _ you_."

Bucky starts striding toward the elevator, eyes focusing ahead of him, and Clint takes the opportunity to rake his gaze over the assassin --as covertly as he's able given the proximity-- knowing he'll probably never be this_ up close and personal _again.

The soft lines around his eyes, the deeper ones on his forehead, and none around his mouth gives Clint pause. A silent story of so much pain and not enough joy etched into his face. Clint's eyes travel over the stubbled skin around his lips, over his cheek, down his neck, suddenly overcome with the desire to rub his own cheek against it, wanting to feel the biting friction. He wonders how it would taste rough against his tongue. He shifts in Bucky's arms and blames gravity for the way his blood starts to drain south, feeling himself firming uncomfortably against his tortured jeans.

The slight dip when Bucky bends to jab at the elevator button jostles Clint just enough to reset his train of thought, because, wow, how did that come off the tracks so quickly? He clears his throat again, trying desperately to dislodge the hunger choking him.

He watches a muscle twitch in Bucky's jaw and feels the hard chest rise and fall a little more swiftly. The thick vein in Bucky's neck jumps erratically, and Clint reaches up to run his fingers over it without thinking. Bucky's head snaps in his direction, and Clint recoils his fingers like they'd grazed burning embers, his hand held raised, frozen in place. Bucky doesn't say anything but Clint can feel the charge rolling off him in waves, the air around them crackling with electricity. If he didn't know better, Clint would say Thor is about to bolt from the sky at any second, and half-expects the blue-white flashes to fill the parking garage.

Bucky’s stormy eyes drop to Clint's hand, still held aloft between them, and Clint's brain stutters. Suddenly, he's reaching up to slide his hands around Bucky's neck, his interlocking arms cushioned by the silky sheet of hair trapped between his skin and Bucky's.

Oh, shit.

Clint freezes, eyes going wide, looking from his arms to Bucky's face and back again, trying to understand why the hell he'd just done that. Does he keep his arms in place? Is that weird? Of course, it's fucking weird. Should he bring them back down? Would that make it even weirder? Fuck.

The loud _ding_ announcing the elevator's arrival draws both men's attention. Clint sends a silent prayer of thanks to all that is holy that the damned thing is empty. Bucky moves them into the spacious box and jabs at the button with a metal finger, cursing softly under his breath as it simultaneously lights up and shatters under the pressure.

Faced with analysis paralysis, Clint's arms remain locked in place, deciding the best course of action is no action at all. His current position has him pulling tighter against the muscular chest, Clint's face now close enough to nuzzle into Bucky’s neck or nip at that ridiculously plush lower lip. He squirms against Bucky again, who in turn re-positions him, the arm on Clint’s back sliding down to cup the swell of his ass.

_ Oh. _

The blood trapped below boils and expands, and Clint tenses the muscles in his body as taut as a bowstring, a concentrated effort to keep from grinding into the touch. He digs his fingernails into the flesh of his own arm, wincing in grim satisfaction when he finds bruised skin, diverting some of the signals overflowing the pleasure portion of his brain to the pain branch, instead. Grateful for the slight reprieve from the lust threatening to burn him alive.

His gut does a sickening yo-yo flip as the elevator comes to a stop on the floor housing Clint's room, and Bucky is once again propelling them forward.

Clint reluctantly releases Bucky's neck to press his finger against the biometric scanner at his door, cursing Tony --not for the first time-- for refusing to use something as mundane as keys. The door opens with a soft click-whoosh combo and Bucky is settling him gently on his bed a moment later.

_ Room. Bed. Bucky. _

Clint's brain is spinning, and he knows he's forgetting to remember something important. But looking up at Bucky, the only pressing thing on his mind is inextricably linked to the thing pressing up in his lap.

"You wanna --"

"Fuck."

Clint swallows thickly. _ Took the word right out of my mouth. _

"Sorry," Bucky runs a hand through his hair, "you were saying?"

Clint shakes his head. "You first."

"I forgot your crutches. Left 'em in the truck."

"Oh. Yeah. Right. That's what I was gonna ask. If you wanna... go get them..." Clint trails off lamely, biting back the groan, choking on it.

Bucky stares down at him, Clint's own eyes dropping to trace the path of Bucky's tongue as it darts out to wet his lips. Bucky nods before turning, "Back in a minute."

Flopping back onto the bed, trying desperately to redistribute the blood in his body, Clint watches him go, because seriously? America's ass has nothing on the tail end of Winter.

  
  



	4. No One Could Save Me But You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint lets his eyes drag slowly up Bucky's body on the way to his face -- life is about the journey, not the destination -- and pauses. So. What would Nat do? The answer slices sharp and clean through his tequila-soaked brain; kiss him and see if he kisses you back or stabs you. Clint feels his cheeks start to tingle and hopes that the warm incandescent lighting is enough to hide the scarlet 'giddy schoolgirl with a crush' scrawled across his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Long chapter is long; pretty much the same length as the first three chapters put together. Thirsty!Clint demanded more fic-time with Bucky, so that's where we're at. Prepare thyself. 
> 
> ii. Many thanks to FestiveFerret --the best kind of Ferret-- for allowing me to poke sharp things into her brain and steal what falls out. 
> 
> iii. Many thanks also to the happy enablers in the WinterHawk discord server, who rose to the occasion and inundated me with possible WH songs. Although I didn't end up using one, their suggestions led me down a youtube rabbit hole which eventually led me to Wicked Game and gave me many more options for future Clint/Bucky adventures. 
> 
> iv. For WinterHawk Bingo : Gay Chicken

Clint picks distractedly at the fraying strands of his jeans, pulling on them, watching them unravel. He feels a strange kinship with the blue threads. Ever since he'd run into Bucky this morning, quite literally, he's felt very much like he's coming undone.

Bucky solicits some strange Pavlovian response from his body that he can't explain. He's never had a reaction like this to anyone, ever. It wasn't just lustful anticipation that comes from wanting, nor the residual stirrings after having taken his pleasure already. It was a heady mix of both, burning desire fueled by a strange familiarity. But he'd certainly never_ had _ Bucky.

...Right?

He'd remember.

Unless he's forgotten.

Clint's fingers freeze midway through tugging a strand of thread. The missing week...

Is it even possible? Surely he'd remember_ that_. Remember_ him_. Bucky would have said something. Wouldn't he? It's not like Clint could come out and ask him. Or anyone else for that matter. Clint couldn't exactly call Nat and ask if he'd slept with anyone on the team, especially anyone that smelled like lust personified and dressed in leather, looking like a bondage lover's wet dream strutting into life. He mentally curses himself for not oversharing like everyone else.

Perched on his barstool, his fingers shift to trace the smooth lip of the shot glass mindlessly. He is thankful for Stark's insistence on having a fully-stocked bar in the tower. Clint has a feeling he's going to be needing it tonight. 

Bucky had delivered his crutches earlier with a nod and a tight-lipped smile that didn't reach his eyes, no words spoken. Which was probably for the best. If Bucky had started talking, Clint isn't sure he could have stopped himself from taking advantage of that pretty, open mouth, to find out if he tastes as good as he smells. And looks. And sounds.

Clint groans. He is so fucked.

He lifts the glass to his lips and throws the clear liquid down his throat, the burn doing nothing but amplifying the fact that this particular thirst will not be quenched with alcohol. Though it won’t be for lack of trying. He reaches for the bottle and refills the glass. Quitting is for quitters, as they say.

He sends the new liquid down to meet its friend, feeling the warmth of the reunion spreading outward from his stomach. He turns the glass around in his fingers, squinting. It looks so tiny, like he has giant hands. Is this how Banner feels when he activates jolly green giant mode?

"Hulk! Smash!" Clint lifts the glass up and smashes it down on the bar. His fingers slip off the slick cup, sending it ricocheting off the polished wood, skidding across the floor, and hitting the leg of the pool table with a _crack_.

Oops.

His brain is sliding around in his skull, untethered, making him feel like he's moving though he's mostly sure he's still sitting still. He drops his head to the bar, cursing loudly when it makes contact, the sharp_ thwack _sound paling in comparison to the much sharper signal flare of pain lighting up his brain.

_ Jesus. _ He's a walking disaster. A vision of his crutches, currently propped up against the stool beside him, pops mockingly to his mind and he sighs. _ Can't even get the walking part right. _He's grateful everyone is out saving the world from... well, whatever was threatening it today, the last thing he needs is someone to bear witness to his mental, physical, and sexual breakdown. Too much blackmail ammunition laid bare for the trigger-happy folk he called his family.

"Drinking with all your friends?"

Clint groans into the bar. Fan-fucking-tastic. Clint doesn't know what he did to make the universe hate him, but it must have been bad.

He raises his head just enough to allow his face to drag across the bar as he turns to Bucky. He lifts the bottle in front of him. "Jus' the ones I like."

Bucky's chuckle exits his chest and settles on Clint's like a goddamned medal - a reward for making those pearly whites put in an appearance again - the court jester gets his gold. He tries not to preen.

He watches as Bucky struts down the staircase --actually struts like he's trying to get a little rise out of Clint, or a rise out of little Clint-- and taps a rapid Morse code onto a bright panel on the wall. After a pause, a soft guitar rift is floating on the air around them.

Clint cocks his head, listening. Bucky's taste in music is not what he would have expected, but when one is a hundred years old, one is bound to have eclectic tastes, he supposes. As if Bucky can read Clint's mind, he saunters over to the bar offering, "Wanda made me a playlist."

Clint's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline like they’re trying to escape his face. "Wa-Wanda?"

Bucky nods and claims a stool, leaving an empty one between them. Clint drops his eyes to the empty chair, lips puckering and twitching in slow motion as his brain tries to fit this new information nugget into the mental snack box labeled _Bucky_.

A playlist. The millennial version of a mix-tape. Were he and Wanda...? Clint's lips stop their dance and pull down in a grimace. Clint wonders if Bucky's varied tastes extend beyond music. His brain is a dog chasing its own tail. Round and round and round he goes. He tries to sharpen his soggy focus.

He can't come right out and ask Bucky if anything had happened between them, the amount of times he's embarrassed himself in the last twelve hours is bordering on fatal. He'll just have to channel his inner Nat and get Bucky to volunteer the information willingly. _ Plan of attack: acquired. _ He has to stop his hand from literally patting himself on the back, settling for a self-satisfied smirk, instead.

Clint lets his eyes drag slowly up Bucky's body on the way to his face --because life is about the journey, not the destination-- and pauses. So. What _would_ Nat do? The answer slices sharp and clean through his tequila-soaked brain - kiss him and see if he kisses you back or stabs you. Clint feels his cheeks start to tingle and hopes that the warm incandescent lighting is enough to hide the scarlet_ giddy schoolgirl with a crush_ scrawled across his skin.

Bucky's gaze doesn't dip to Clint's cheeks, remaining locked on his eyes, but Clint has the niggling feeling that despite the lack of movement, Bucky is reading him like a book. One with large print. And pictures.

"So, you 'n Wanda are close?" Clint enunciates each word slowly, his tongue starting to feel unwieldy in his mouth.

Bucky's lips flash up but his eyes don't waver. "Yeah, she's great."

"Yeah, she is." And she is. She really is. Which is why Clint feels guilty for suddenly pushing her to the very bottom of his_ favorite teammates ranked first to the last _ list. 

Clint shifts again, turning his body to match his face, pointed_ due Bucky, _ and accidentally bangs his cast against the chair leg, the vibrations traveling through to the mangled foot beneath. He swears loud, long and creative, and fishes a small orange container from the pocket of his jeans.

"Barnes? Do a guy a solid? Grab me a beer?" Clint could have hobbled his way around the bar and procured it himself, but it was so much more rewarding watching Bucky doing it.

Stalking around the bar like a human-panther hybrid --Clint gives himself bonus points for that one, because damn if it didn't fit with his whole sleek movements paired with black on black on ensemble-- Bucky acquiesces, snagging a bottle for himself while he's at it.

Bucky pops the cap for him, a gesture that makes Clint's chest tingle warmly in a way that has nothing to do with his blood-alcohol level, before doing the same to his own. Clint places a small white pill on his tongue and raises the bottle to his mouth, letting the bitter liquid ferry it to his stomach. He takes another long swallow, watching Bucky tip his own bottle to his lips.

Clint's eyes narrow on Bucky's Adam's apple bobbing as he drinks. An image of Bucky --head thrown back, neck exposed, Clint sucking a bruise over the masculine lump of his throat as it shifts under his tongue-- explodes in front of his eyes and he chokes on the beer running down his throat, pulling it into his chest.

The thumping on his back is hard enough to fully expel the air from his lungs in one harsh_ oof _. Clint is immensely thankful Bucky hadn't used his shiny hand, pretty sure his rib cage would be half way across the room right now if he had. He sucks in a wheezing breath, tears pricking his eyes, and rasps his thanks before coughs start wracking his body.

The warm hand resting against him doesn't switch back to pinata-mode, instead, moves to rub soothing circles across his back as the coughing continues - his lungs working to expel the last of the trespassing liquid. Clint's chest is rising and falling rapidly for reasons that have little to do with the errant beer.

"Breathe through your nose. Deep breaths, yeah that's it, you're good."

Clint closes his eyes and focuses on Bucky's low voice and the feeling of his hand, taking long slow breaths through his nose as instructed. The coughing finally subsides and the warm weight disappears from his back. He ponders feigning a cough, wondering if Bucky's hand will return. 

Clint is weighing the odds, slowly --his brain is more than a little fuzzy around the edges now-- when Bucky moves, sliding on to the seat next to him. Bucky's legs brush Clint’s as he rights himself on the previously empty stool, knees pressing against thighs, but Bucky makes no move to shift the chair away.

Clint stares at where their legs are joined. One blue-clad, one bare, resting against two black-denim-clad, much thicker ones. Clint really should have changed his jeans, but his penchant for tight pants didn't really allow for bulky leg accessories, and he isn't prepared to hack up his wardrobe just yet. But when Bucky shifts on the chair, and his knee rubs higher up Clint's thigh, he's gritting his teeth and adding_ looser pants _ to his mental shopping list.

He can feel Bucky's gaze mirroring his like a physical weight.

"We really should get you out of those pants."

Clint's head jerks up, along with certain other parts of his anatomy. Please let that be an invitation. Oh, pretty please. "We?"

Bucky nods. "They're filthy, and I've seen you try and walk, Barton. I don't want to imagine the damage you'll cause trying to hop, literally, out of a pair of pants." his lips tip up, amused at his own joke. A flash of pink swipes along his lower lip.

Clint echoes the nod, fingers reaching out to grasp the shot glass --needing a task to keep his mouth from starting a game of _ hide and seek _ with Bucky's tongue-- and close around thin air. _ What? Oh. Yeah. _Clint sighs as he remembers the glass is now laying cracked, on the floor, just out of reach. Like his dignity. He grabs his beer instead, letting the cold liquid rehydrate his suddenly bone-dry throat. Resting the now half-empty bottle on the bar, he motions to the one cradled in Bucky's large hands, trying not to picture those thick fingers curled around other things.

"Thought that has no 'ffect on you surly super-soldier types." Clint's s's are starting to drag thickly. He wiggles his tongue in his mouth, trying to wake it up.

"I like the taste." Bucky shrugs.

Clint snorts. "Oh yeah, b'coz bitter's the best of all o' the tastes." He picks up the orange pill bottle and spins it with sluggish fingers, _ shiny object syndrome _ setting in.

"Hmmm. Maybe not the best," Bucky's voice is all velvet gravel, "but it's nice to coat your tongue with every now and then."

The pill bottle skitters out of Clint's fingers, sliding across the bar, a large silver hand darting out to thwart its escape. Clint's choking cough breaks the air as he grabs his beer and pushes it to his lips, filling his mouth in a desperate attempt to drown the moan clawing its way to the surface.

Did he just...? Clint isn't drunk enough for this. Or he's too drunk for this. He isn't sure which, but he knows it’s one. Probably the latter, upon closer, very squinty, reflection.

He can see Bucky inspecting the pill bottle out of the corner of his eye before metal fingers are snatching the beer bottle from his mouth, amber liquid sloshing down his chin.

"Hey! -- was drinkin' that!" He mops at his chin with the back of his hand, serving only to wet more of his face.

"Jesus, Barton. You aren't meant to mix painkillers and alcohol. That's going to fuck you up." Bucky's voice is strained. The slamming thud from the bottle hitting the bar top, well out of Clint's reach, an exclamation point of disapproval.

Clint's eyes flicker from the creases on Bucky's forehead to the slightly parted lips --having popped on the hard _ p _ and stayed-- back to the corners of his eyes drawn down in... anger? Concern? Premeditated murder?

"'s too late, man." His lips purse loosely, eyes going soft.

Though he does feel quite floaty, and more than a little blurry, he's mostly lucid enough to know the contents of his stomach are not solely responsible for his off-kilterness. Maybe shouldering 25% responsibility, at a guess. The rest was entirely man-made, made by the man sitting next to him.

"Bu' that was m'first beer of the night." 

Bucky's head notches to the right, disbelief seeping through his every pore.

Clint stares at Bucky staring at him. Guilt flares in his gut. _ Don't do it. Don't do it. _

Bucky's eyes narrow by half a millimeter and Clint's resolve cracks.

"I mean, I had some tequila shots b'fore, but technitc... tencl-" Clint swallows, resetting his tongue, "tec-in-nic-lee, t'was m'first _ beer _." 

Bucky shakes his head and huffs, scrubbing his hand through his hair before tangling his flesh fingers in the long strands, light glancing off his metal hand as it comes up to join the first.

Clint's eyes track the movements unsteadily, his tongue darting out to lick his top lip before running over the bottom one and pulling it between his teeth. So apparently it was possible to be jealous of hair. Who knew? He watches Bucky's thick fingers curling and twisting, gathering the dark curtain into a knot at the back of his head, only a single strand slipping free, resting against Bucky's face.

Clint leans forward, hand outstretched, fully intending to wrap the silken strand around his finger. To be helpful. To push it up to join its friends. ...or maybe to pull it down, use it to tug Bucky's lips against his own. It is a 50/50 shot, really.

The choose your own adventure options playing out in his mind make him feel off balance. Or, that could be him tipping on his chair as his weight shifts toward Bucky, falling forward like a human domino.

Strong hands catch his shoulders just as his face crashes into Bucky's chest. He inhales deeply, his lungs filling with_ Bucky _for one brief shining moment before he's being pushed, gently, back in place. Clint’s stool shifts back onto an even keel, and he’s jealous when his mind doesn't follow suit.

He's keenly aware of Bucky's hands --once assured he's resettled-- sliding down his sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake, coming to press in on his waist. Bucky holds him in place like he doesn't trust Clint to stay upright on his own --fair, under the circumstances-- and leans forward, eyes darting between his now moderately blurry ones, assessing him.

Clint half expects him to pull a pen light from his pocket to check his pupillary response. And hey, why stop there? Maybe he has a thermometer, or a stethoscope. Suddenly Clint is playing doctor with Bucky in his mind, jumping right past the routine checkup and landing right at bend over and--

Clint coughs and sucks in a noisy breath through his nose.

Bucky sighs. "At the risk of sounding like a broken 45, _ are _ you okay? _ Really _ okay?"

Clint considers. On one hand, no, no he's really not. There's a good possibility he's having a stroke. Or he's possessed. Aliens exist, why not demons? Or maybe he's just so fucking horny he's laying all his _ please take me, destroy me, tear me apart _at Bucky's feet. Clint's eyes flick down. At Bucky's very large feet. _ Hmmm_. His eyes flick back up. He takes a deep breath and tries to drag his brain back on track, and his eyes away from Bucky's crotch...

Where was he? Oh. Yeah. On the other hand. His mind reaches, but there's nothing there. There is no other hand. He can't remember the last time he had sex. Well, he can remember but he doesn't know if that really _was_ the last time. This amnesia thing is becoming very inconvenient, very quickly. Maybe he just needs to get Bucky into his bed to get him out of his system?

It takes a moment for his brain to follow the rest of him to the standing position Bucky has pulled him to. Bucky's hands still clutch his waist like they're about to start slow dancing at the prom.

"--'f you try t'pick me up 'thout askin' me 'gain, I swear t'god, Barnes--”

"You'll what? Fall on me again?”

_ I'll show you what. _ Face inches from Bucky's, Clint falters, the sarcastic retort catching in his throat, shedding its skin and slithering into something else entirely.

"...'s your song."

Clint's brain is still a little scrambled from before and a lot pickled from now, but the song swelling in the background triggers something.

"My song?" Bucky's voice is low, almost petering out before it reaches Clint's ear.

"You were hummin'. S'mornin'..."

Clint closes his eyes, straining to catch the words weaving through the soft guitar chords and steady drum beats, feeling like his whole body is floating back and forth in time with the melody.

The song runs through him, circling the black hole that his memories have collapsed into, and Clint can feel his brain prickling, itching, struggling to draw them back out. Bucky's hands shifting against him pulls his focus outward again.  
  


_ \--- What a wicked game to play, to make me feel this way --- _

_ Oh. _

The seductive vocals slide around in Clint's brain, flipping a switch and activating the liquid courage stores in his belly.

His own hands come to rest on the tight mismatched hands gripping his waist, lingering for a moment before sliding up and over the dark fabric hiding Bucky’s stupidly thick arms from view. His hands pause on Bucky's shoulders to give him time to break contact, the unspoken dare shining out from Clint’s eyes.

Bucky's chest expands as he drags in a calculated breath, but it is the only move he makes.  
  


_ \--- What a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you --- _

  
The branch of Clint's brain devoted to impulse control has long since been inundated with alcoholic flood waters, and all remaining resources have reallocated to higher ground in the _ fuck it, just go with it _division. Which is how he finds himself sliding one hand up Bucky's neck, ghosting over his _ sharp-enough-to-bleed-you _ jawline, his curled fingers coming to rest under Bucky’s chin.

He pauses, his thumb hovering a breath away from Bucky's barely parted mouth, giving him a chance to tap out. The moment where holding another's gaze becomes awkward has long since passed, yet Clint stares into those clear blue eyes, watching them turn dark as his thumb presses down softly, trailing back and forth over Bucky's plush lower lip. 

He can feel the hot rush of Bucky's breath surging over his thumb as he presses harder. His eyes search for hesitation, but Bucky's nerve holds.

Clint's thumb slides wetly from its prize.  
  


_ \--- The world was on fire, no one could save me but you --- _

  
Their matching shallow breaths are an arousal-fueled backup track to the song curling around them.

Clint's hands draw together like magnets, one hand running down Bucky's skin as the other slides up, coming to cup Bucky's neck, thumbs resting on the pulse points under his jaw, then stills.

Five beats, strong and rapid under his thumbs. No recoiling.

Clint traces small circles on Bucky's neck, watching a pretty red flush appear under his fingers, working its way up, just as his own blood starts pumping in earnest in the opposite direction.  
  


_ \--- Strange what desire will make foolish people do --- _   
  


Bucky is looking down at him, the black of his eyes blown wide, dark obscuring light, only a thin blue ring remaining. Lust eclipsing a very heavenly body. Clint's skin prickles.

His hands glide around Bucky's neck, skating over his nape, spreading as they journey higher. Raking over trapped locks, seeking fingers find the band binding dark hair.

A quick, sharp tug on the silken strands has Bucky's head jerking back, neck arching invitingly. Another tug has the band coming free in Clint's hand. The dark waterfall of hair cascades down and Clint tangles his fingers in it just as Bucky's fingers dig deeper into his waist.

The knowledge that Bucky is more than strong enough to resist Clint's hold, that he's_ letting _ Clint take control, almost makes him lose his mind, right inside his too-tight jeans.  
  


\--- I'd never dreamed that I'd love somebody like you ---  
  


He runs his nose up the hard line of Bucky's exposed neck, breathing him in. "Jesus, Barnes, y'smell so fuckin' good." He nuzzles at the offered skin, nostrils flaring.

The shuddering gasp Bucky draws makes the vein in his neck put in another appearance, and acting purely on instinct, Clint swipes his tongue over it, moaning as coarse stubble bites at his wet flesh.

Bucky groans and Clint whimpers as one large hand finally abandons his waist to fist his hair, forcibly pulling his mouth from its claim.

  
The next few moments blur together, Clint's brain working in slow motion, unable to keep up as Bucky's hand releases Clint’s hair, reclaims his waist and lifts him, fireman style, over a very hard shoulder.

He wants to protest at being manhandled -_-a-fucking-gain _\-- but his stomach is rolling and threatening to empty all over Bucky's back should he open his mouth, so he clenches his jaw and closes his eyes against the truly awe-inspiring wave of vertigo hurricaning inside of him.

With eyes squeezed shut and his sense of direction suffering alcohol-related-malfunctions, Clint can't tell where Bucky is stomping to, but the jostling movements feeding up into his body are sweet torture. Clint is well out of fucks to give and does his best to grind against the hard press of Bucky's body. The choked off moan that tears from Bucky's chest rumbles into him and it's enough to make him weep.

Whether for reward or punishment, Bucky readjusts him, and Clint is back in now familiar territory, pressing against Bucky's chest, his strong arms wrapping under Clint’s ass and tucking around his torso. Mourning the lack of grindable surfaces in his current position, Clint's hands reach up to twist in Bucky’s shirt even as his mouth latches on to the curve of Bucky's neck.  
  
"Fuck, _ Clint_."

His name on those lips sets Clint’s nerves alight, and he bites down on the flesh in his mouth. The threads of his control are stretching impossibly thin, on the edge of snapping completely. He feels Bucky's fingers coming to circle his wrist, lifting it, pressing it against something smooth, and then he's bouncing against that firm chest again for two, three, four strides and...

Clint is falling through the air before sinking wholly into a cloud.   
  
_ Wait - what? _

He blinks stupidly. His brain struggling to coalesce all his sensory inputs into a logical conclusion.

"Barnes?" He blinks up at Bucky, realizing he's been dumped unceremoniously onto his bed, his whole body protesting the unwanted exchange of hard for soft.

Clint's fingers reach out to Bucky, curling desperately in true grabby hands mode, but Bucky remains frustratingly just beyond reach, towering over him, chest rising and falling rapidly.

Clint's breath catches in his throat as Bucky bends, reaching out to him, fingers working at the button of his jeans before moving to the zip. Drawing it down half an inch, Bucky pauses and pulls a flap of denim aside, curious eyes seeking something Clint's brain cannot fathom. A moment later, the zip is drawing all the way down and Clint is arching his hips up to press against Bucky's hand.

Bucky's voice is husky but stern. "Don't make this harder than it already is."

"Mmm... don' worry, this's it. 'f I get any harder Imma die." Clint's hips roll again.

The harsh curse Bucky spits out is covered by the loud sound of ripping denim. Clint watches through heavy-lidded eyes as Bucky tears the fabric easily before lifting the torn remnants from his body. A moment later his vision is obscured as his shirt is shucked from his body, leaving him covered in nothing but straining black briefs and barely contained need.

Clint pushes up on his elbows, eyes locking on his target. "Okay, Barnes, t’was stupid hot. But yer wearin' too m'ny clothes, man. Gonna be hard t'fuck with yer pants on."

Bucky's metal fingers clenching into a fist and rolling inward, like stretching out a mechanical muscle, draws Clint's focus. Distracted, he doesn't see Bucky's other hand reach down to tug at his blanket from the foot of the bed, pulling it up to cover Clint's almost-naked body.

Confusion flooding his brain, Clint's hand reaches out to grip Bucky's wrist as he releases the blanket edge. "Barnes?"

"You _ need _ to sleep."

"Fuck sleep. I _ need _ you."

Bucky stares down at him, eyes flashing darkly, his whole body thrumming with tension. "You're in no condition to know what you want, Barton." He wrenches his wrist free from Clint's grasp easily.

The electronic door catches and stutters as Bucky takes his leave, the soft electronic_ who-whoo-whoosh _as it slides home carries over to him like a mechanical laugh, mocking him.

Clint throws the blanket off his already burning body and whines pitifully.

He's dead. He knows he is. The car that hit him must have killed him and now he's trapped in the second circle of hell. Sentenced to an eternity of Bucky-shaped temptation, igniting his mind and scorching his body. But there will be no Nirvana for him, no Promised Land of Bucky's body pulling broken prayers from his lips.

Clint lets the frustrated groan swell in his throat, pushing it out harshly, a dark, humorless laugh chasing close behind. No wonder Bucky smells like smoke and burns hot enough to make his insides melt, he had been cast from brimstone itself to be his own personal hell. Because what is hell anyway but heaven close enough to touch but just beyond reach?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Impromptu poll time! In the event I wander vaguely into smutland, let's all play Top or Bottom: Bucky edition! Preferences in comments shall be noted.


	5. In The Shadows Out Of Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "S'okay, I broke my fall with my face." He can feel the laugh as it ripples through Bucky’s stomach. "Y'know, out of the three times I've needed rescuing lately, two of those were caused by you, so they really don't count."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Need to thank [FestiveFerret](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FestiveFerret) for bringing shovels and helping dig me out of a plot hole. Again.  
ii. I haven't seen Trick R Treat so if that scene didn't happen, uh, pretend it's a deleted scene.  
iii. For WinterHawk bingo, again : Wearing Each Other's Clothes.

Why the fuck is he on a merry-go-round?

Clint cracks his eyelids open with supreme difficulty to realize he is in fact, still in his room, though it’s certainly a lot more spinny than he remembers it being last night. He lets his eyelids fall closed again, dismayed when the spinning doesn’t stop. Pushing himself to a sitting position, he curses again as his heartbeat bangs against his skull in vehement protest.   
  
So alcohol, pain killers, and head injuries? Worse bedfellows.

He wonders if staying in bed all day is a valid option. Throw himself a pity party and hide from the world. Hide from_ Bucky_. He sighs. His bladder taps gently inside his belly. So, that’s a no then.

Clint opens his eyes again and scans the room blearily, looking for his crutches. They settle instead on the little blue LED of his phone blinking angrily at him. It’s sitting, with a bottle of water and his painkillers, on top of a neatly folded pile of dark fabric. Huh. Powerless against his curiosity, he swipes the phone open, pressing the message icon and stalls. His thumb hovers over Bucky's face for a moment before moving down to Nat's message.

_ Still in one piece? _

He sighs, not sure how to answer that right now.

Closing the message, he chews on his lip, looking down at the small cropped photo of Bucky staring back at him from his screen. Jesus, swallow some concrete, harden up. Steeling his shoulders he jabs his thumb on Bucky's face harder than necessary.

_ Call me when you're up. _

_ Seriously, Barton. _

_ I am not going to carry you around if you fall and break your other ankle._  
  
Clint huffs. How on earth can he be so endearing and aggravating at the same time? 

As appealing as it would be to have his own super-human taxi, Clint wouldn't give Bucky the satisfaction of being right about his inability to handle things himself. He'd _handled_ _things_ just fine after Bucky had rejected him last night. He flushes at the memory.

Clint grabs the water and chugs it, trying to douse the embers stirring low in his belly. He eyes his pill bottle darkly. Draining the last of the liquid, he tosses the empty water bottle on the bed before flicking the orange bottle, watching it fly across the room, hit the wall and fall to the carpet. It feels nice, for a moment, blaming the incompatibility of the pills and booze rather than himself for everything going pear shape last night. Or, _ Clint-shaped_, really.

Grabbing the dark fabric, he shakes the folds out, eyebrows pulling together in confusion. A pair of Bucky's sweatpants. It is a sweet gesture, which, after last night seems odd. He thought The Winter Soldier's preferred methods of execution were bullets and knives, not mixed messages.  
  
He could just leave the pants, return them to Bucky with a thanks but no thanks… which means he would have to get scissor-happy with his own. But then --his eyes fall onto the hamper overflowing in the corner of the room-- he’d have to do laundry first anyway. He is pretty sure the pants Bucky adiós-ed last night were his last no-longer-clean pair. Clint sighs. He could just hop around naked, that would make one hell of a statement. 

Shifting on the bed, he swings his legs to hang off the side. Lowering the pants, he shoves his good leg into them, pulling the miles of dark fabric up to where his thigh is pressing against the bed. Bending to repeat the motion for his other leg, he watches as the fabric slides easily past his cast. He sighs. Somewhere, he knows Bucky has a smug smirk painted across his pretty face. Clint bounces his ass off the bed, and in one, two, three bounces the fabric is under his butt and up around his hips. 

The fabric sags and hangs from his smaller frame so Clint rolls the waistband a few times, adding bulk and lifting the extra length pooling at his feet. He can't stop the shiver that runs through him at the thought of wearing Bucky's clothes. He snorts out a humorless laugh. Not exactly what he had in mind when he'd been thinking of getting in Bucky’s pants. 

He squints around for his crutches and comes up short. Son of a bitch. No doubt Bucky is holding them hostage to force his hand into calling him. Or to stop him from doing something stupid. It's almost like Bucky doesn't know him at all...

Clint's bladder chooses this moment to update its status to urgent. He eyes the distance between him and his target, lips twisting sourly. He is_ not _calling Bucky to take him to the bathroom. 

Using the bed to steady himself, he stands, giving his stomach a moment to crawl back up from his feet where it drops at the sudden motion, then assumes the position. The position being full flamingo with a side of airplane: leg pulled up behind him, arms outstretched for balance. Clint wobbles dangerously for a moment but his luck, amazingly, holds. He sends a silent string of pleas to gravity and hops forward. 

It's hard to say if it's pure skill or pure spite that keeps him upright, but he isn't going to split hairs. Buoyed by the success, he _ hop, hop, hops _ until finally he’s catching the door frame to slow his momentum. He skids alarmingly on the tiles, his hand clutching at the door knob bringing him to a halt, his shoulder twinging sharply as it jerks in its socket.

His brain is _ bounce, bounce, bouncing _ in his head like a delayed echo of his physical movements, and Clint squeezes his eyes shut against the pain while unrolling his pants, because contrary to what Nat says, he_ can so _multitask. The throb in his skull subsides slowly and Clint lets the pants drop to his feet, his mind shifting to the task at hand.

Once his bladder is placated, he bends to reacquire the pants. The task is made more difficult by the lack of available handholds in the bathroom --and he is going to have a talk with Stark about making the Tower more walking-disaster, er, hopping-disaster-friendly when he sees him again-- but Clint manages it. Just. 

His blood pressure dips as his head drops low and lifts again quickly, and his stomach rolls unpleasantly. His throat constricts as bitter bile climbs up his tongue. Releasing his hold on the pants, Clint lets them sag and reaches to grip the sink tightly with both hands. Shaky fingers press on the cool ceramic as sweat beads on his upper lip and forehead, exertion borne from the battle of wills raging inside him, warring to decide where the contents of his stomach should reside, inside or outside his body.

He draws a deep breath through his nose and tries to shift his focus from the way his body is lubricating his throat in case of an emergency recall. The events of last night roll around on the choppy waters of his brain as his head sinks down to his chest. 

After a shaky start, he had thought Bucky was interested. Really interested. The noises he'd made under Clint's fingers and mouth translated to _ yes,please,fuck _in every language. And when Bucky had reached for Clint’s pants, he'd almost embarrassed himself on a legendary level, but compared to the actual ending of the night, if given the chance, Clint would have sacrificed his own dignity willingly and spent the rest of the night pulling Bucky's out of him. One moan at a time.

He groans. Technically his plan from last night had been a success, just not the kind of success he'd been hoping for. 

Maybe Bucky was humoring him, just going along with the game. Or maybe he isn't Bucky's type. Or maybe Bucky doesn't like sloppy drunks -- and to be fair, by the end of the night, Clint had been very sloppy, in more ways than one. 

Whichever _ or _ it turned out to be, Bucky had made it abundantly clear when he had walked out on a ready, willing, and half-naked Clint, that he isn't, for whatever reason, interested. Especially after he had... oh, God. Clint's heart flounders in his chest. He had admitted he wanted Bucky. With actual words. To his actual face. Ahh, fuck.

Clint's stomach clenches painfully and empties into the sink.

Turning on the faucet to destroy the evidence of his latest humiliation, he fills his hand and rinses his mouth. He runs his tongue across his teeth: still nasty. 

Using one hand to hold himself steady --as he could get with his good leg tiring quickly-- he proceeds to scrub toothpaste over his teeth until bile flavor has been replaced with minty freshness. 

Clint slumps against the sink. Whatever spoons of energy the universe had allocated him today, he'd just burned them up as quickly and stupidly as if he'd boiled and injected them. And now, his body is in free-fall without a parachute, about to crash headfirst into exhaustion. 

He glares at the gaping chasm of space between him and the bed. Crawling would be less intensive but take longer. Hopping being very much the other side of the coin. The scales in his brain tip to the left. 

Spurred on by his overwhelming need to be horizontal again, preferably for a solid twelve hours, Clint charts his course. He springs from his rapidly-becoming-less-than-good foot, and... everything turns to shit in signature Clint style. 

He realizes, a heartbeat too late, that he's forgotten to roll up his --well, Bucky's-- pants, and as he pushes up against gravity, they succumb to it, falling and pooling around his feet, sliding between skin and tile as he comes back down. He slips forward, his head glancing off the door frame, and for the second time in three days, oblivion claims him. 

. . . 

The first thing Clint becomes aware of is pain. A lot of pain. Someone has cracked open his skull, put his brain in a space-saver bag, and sucked all the air out of it. The pressure in his head isn't helped by the earthquake currently rumbling through his body. At least a solid 7.1 on the Richter scale.

" ---ton? BARTON! Jesus, Clint, open your eyes."

The voice is far off and although very shouty, barely rises above the ringing in his ears. Clint's face scrunches up as he cracks an eyelid, pulling it back down quickly when sharp shards of light slice into his brain by way of his retina. 

"Ow."

The earthquake in his body stops, and it takes a moment to realize Bucky is the source of the shaking. Clint feels the strong hands on his shoulders become static.

"Can you open your eyes?" 

"Can. Don't want to." Clint grimaces. "Too bright."

Strong hands disappear and reappear a moment later. 

"Try now."

Clint re-cracks one eyelid experimentally. When his eyeball doesn't immediately run screaming back into his skull, he draws up the other. The room is darker now, Bucky must have drawn the blinds. Clint looks up at the blurry shapes above him, eyes straining and relaxing, trying to find focus. He tries to blink them into submission, but on the third blink, they are down for the count and Bucky is shaking him again. 

"Barton, open your eyes or I'm calling an ambulance."

Clint's eyelids lift even as his brows tug down in a scowl. His eyes slide around in his skull but come to settle on the beautiful, concerned face above him. _Faces. _Plural. His eyes drift from Bucky, to Bucky, to Bucky. 

"Hey, there you are. Can you look at me?"

"Which one of you?" 

Bucky's face glows blue as he lifts his phone and starts pressing numbers into the screen. 

"No hospital. 'm fine."

Bucky snorts. "I'd say you're pretty far from fine, Barton." His voice is strained.

"You can call but I'm just gonna refuse treatment. Then you're gonna be left alone with me. A newly-concussed and very-pissed me."

Bucky's fingers on the phone waver. 

"Look, put the phone away and I'll let you help me up. I promise if I see more than three of you, I'll let you drive me to the hospital."

Clint blinks rapidly. His eyes are working a bit better now, in that there's only one Bucky with slightly blurry edges --like looking at a 3d movie without glasses-- hovering above him. He sees Buck’s lips curl disapprovingly, but the reflected light disappears from his face. 

"I'm holding you to that." Bucky reclines Clint's head back on the carpet before moving to straddle him, thighs bracketing thighs.

Carefully, Bucky presses his hands into Clint's armpits and pulls him, very slowly, to a sitting position. Clint's brain swims around in his head, sending waves of nausea rolling through his stomach, which in turn sends the contents of his stomach — mostly water and bile at this point — flooding over Bucky's shirt. 

_Maximum Humiliation Achieved. Kill Me Now Level : Unlocked._

"Fuck." Clint leans back in Bucky's grip. "Yeah, I'm gonna go hang out with gravity for a few more minutes."

Bucky lowers him back to the carpet gently and looks down at his shirt. 

"Uh, sorry."

"Don't worry about it." Bucky's voice is easy. He shrugs like vomit isn't the worst thing he's been covered in and Clint doesn't doubt it. Bucky lifts his arms behind his neck to grab the rear of the shirt, tugs it up over his head and pulls his arms out of the sleeves, peeling it off in one smooth movement. He balls it up and throws it onto the hamper in the corner of the room, already overflowing with Clint's laundry. 

Clint's eyes, tracking the movements, catch as Bucky turns to discard the shirt. His whole left side is a patchwork of dark purple and sickly yellow, running down across his ribs, reaching around his back and chest, up to wrap around the human-metal border of his shoulder.

"Jesus, Barnes. What the hell happened?"

There's no immediate answer but Clint watches as Bucky grabs a shirt from the dresser and pulls it over his head, covering the mottled flesh. Clint swallows thickly as he eyes the fabric of his shirt straining across Bucky's frame. How the fuck is that not tearing? Somehow, a Bucky wearing a much too small shirt is just as sexy, if not more so, than a Bucky with no shirt at all. Clint almost whines when his view is obscured as Bucky moves to him, settling himself on the floor, cross-legged, and carefully lifts Clint's head into his lap. 

"It doesn’t matter. Are you okay?"

"You need to stop asking me that."

"You need to stop doing things that make me_ need _to ask you that."

...Fair.

Clint doesn't want to risk sudden head movements, so he abandons the nod and settles for a "mmhmm" instead. "S'okay, I broke my fall with my face." A laugh as it ripples through Bucky’s stomach. "Y'know, out of the three times I've needed rescuing lately, two of those were caused by you, so they really don't count."

There’s a pause. When Bucky speaks again, his voice is strained. "How is this one my fault?"

"Your stupid pants. Tripped me. They're too big. Turns out thick thighs take lives." The corner of Clint's mouth tugs up. "Well, almost."

"So that would explain why they were around your ankles." 

Clint moves to jerk up, "What?!"

Bucky's hands press down on him, keeping him in place, another low rumble running through his chest. "Relax, Barton, I assured your modesty when I came in. I didn't peek... much."

Clint feels his face burn and sighs. "I'm a fucking disaster."

Bucky's lips pull up softly. He rakes warm fingers through Clint's hair affectionately. "Yeah, you are." 

Clint looks up at Bucky, upside down in his current position, and his brain breaks free of its internal vacuum, swelling until it is pressing up against his skull tortuously. White sparks fire inside him in a dozen places at once as memories burst bright and vivid before his open eyes.

His vision stutters, Bucky disappearing into a white haze of rain, long locks of drenched hair hanging down over Clint as he lays with his head in Bucky's lap. Gentle fingers raking through Clint’s hair as water streams around him on the asphalt. The sound of sirens drifting closer even as consciousness falls further away.

The gasp lodges in his throat, his heart thudding painfully against his ribs. Clint sits bolt upright, narrowly missing colliding with Bucky, grateful when strong arms come up to grip his shoulders as his head spins wildly, taking the room with it. 

"Hey, hey, easy."

Clint feels Bucky shift behind him, and he can feel the warm heat of Bucky's chest press against his back. Contrasting arms wrap around Clint’s chest, supporting his weight.

"I -- uh -- oh." He sags against Bucky, the contact sending a halfhearted thrill of awareness sparking through him. 

"You know what I'm going to ask you, right?"

Clint is still reeling from the assault his brain is waging on itself, but a ghost of a smile passes over his lips. "I'm fine, Barnes. Just gimme a minute."

He feels Bucky hum against his back and Clint lets his eyelids flutter closed. He lays against Bucky for long minutes as images filter through his mind like a steady drip of percolating coffee, each memory falling into place, rippling out to the one before, and the one before.

The accident, screeching tires and the sound of metal on metal as Bucky takes the brunt of the impact. Feeling his body flying through the air even as Bucky's flesh fingers twist in his shirt, slowing his momentum...

His conversation with Nat, the bright eyes and teasing smile, trying to get him to open up about...

The dreams.

_ Oh_.

_The dreams._

Goosebumps prickle over his skin, contrasting the heat burning through him as wave after wave of memories --tangled limbs, panting breaths, and broken cries of pleasure-- explode behind his closed eyelids.

"Think you can get up?"

Already there. Clint nods, not trusting his voice. 

He feels himself being pulled up with Bucky as he rises. "Permission to carry?"

A smile splits his lips. A real one, with teeth and everything. "Permission granted."

. . .

Clint is resting on the couch where Bucky had placed him carefully, laying his leg out across the vacant seats and pressing cushions behind, around, and on the floor in front of him — _ just in case, _ Bucky had said with a smirk.   
  
Bucky is sitting next to him, a leg-length away, eyes locked on his phone, muttering under his breath and shaking his head as he takes a crash course in concussions.

“So, nothing to eat or drink for the next six hours.”

“Well, that’s not gonna work for me. I need coffee.”

“Well, you should have thought about that before you knocked yourself out again.”

“But… coffee?”  
  
Bucky ignores him and reaches for the remote, settling into the couch, watching as the screen flickers to life. “If you’d just called me as I told you to…”

Clint sighs, looking at the clock reproachfully. _Only five hours and fifty-six minutes to go… _  
  
. . .

"_Need. Coffee._"

Clint watches Bucky huff and shake his head and Clint pouts internally. Just because he’s been asking for coffee every fifteen minutes for the last three hours, there’s no reason to get shirty.

“_No. Drinking._"

"It's fine, intravenous is fine." Clint holds his arm out.

He watches Bucky’s lips tilt up but his eyes don’t move from the screen. A group of teenagers are running through the woods trying to escape some big nasty thing chasing them. Countdown to Halloween done in B-grade horror movies is Bucky's current distraction technique.

_ “COFFEEEEEEE! _”

Bucky’s fingers tap the remote and the screams coming from the t.v. echo louder around the room.

. . .

Bucky lifts Clint’s injured foot off the couch, sliding his body under it to the previously occupied cushion, and places the damaged foot on his lap. He picks up a pen from the coffee table, tugs the cap off with his teeth, and presses the pen nib to the cast.

Clint’s eyes drift back to the clock hands. Bucky has done his best to divert his attention from his rumbling stomach, grumbling head, and desperate coffee cravings. It’s been nice. Hell, it’s been the best day Clint can remember having in a long while to be completely honest, but though Bucky is a delicious distraction all of his own, Clint is starting to reach his breaking point.

_ Twenty-three minutes to go. _

Bucky’s laugh draws Clint’s attention. Bucky is focused on the t.v. now, pearly whites flashing around the pen cap still clamped in his teeth. On screen, a small figure in a bright orange jumpsuit with a hessian sack over its head dispatches a scantily-dressed woman with a giant lollipop.

“Fan of Halloween?”

Bucky turns his gaze on Clint, taking the cap out of his mouth, and rolling it between his fingers.

“When we were kids, me and Steve always went together. Steve was so small back then, he passed for a lot younger than he was.” Bucky’s soft laugh is full of warmth and mischief. “I dragged him out for more years than I really should have, pushing him up to doors to do the deed while I hung back and waited to split the spoils.” His eyes are bright, dancing at the memories.

Seeing Bucky like this makes Clint’s breath catch. He wonders what it must feel like to be the one to have that effect. To wash the pain, always simmering below the surface of those blue eyes, away, even for a brief moment. To light him up from within.

“So, is Steve your type?” Clint doesn't mean to blurt it out, but there's no reeling it back. 

Bucky’s soft smile pushes into a smirk. “Then or now?”

Clint shrugs and picks at non-existent lint on his — Bucky’s (not that he’s ever giving them back) — pants. “Either.”

He can feel the weight of Bucky’s gaze searching his face.  
  
”Steve is family. Always has been, always will be. To try and think of him as anything past that is just… weird.”

“But... you are gay, right?" _ Jesus Christ, Barton. Shut. The. Fuck. Up. _

Bucky shakes his head slowly. "No..."

And there it is. Clint's stomach plummets through his body, landing on the floor. He feels like he just found out Santa isn't real and he silently mourns all those future Bucky-shaped presents he’ll never get to unwrap.

"...not _ completely_."

Clint's stomach perks up and hovers at knee-level, waiting. Hoping. Clint’s eyes flicker back to Bucky’s. "Expand on that, Barnes."

"I like who I like. I like what I like.” Bucky’s lips quirk up. “I like a lot.” 

Clint tries not to squirm under the pointed gaze. Bucky would clean up in staring contests. Those light blue eyes have spent so much time locked onto Clint’s in the last twenty-four hours, he'd be surprised if they weren’t burned into the back of Bucky's eyelids. 

"So, I'm just _ not _ what you like, then?" He tries to float the words, nice and light. He’s not successful. At all. Clint hates himself with every word that slips past his lips but he needs to know, needs to hear Bucky say it. He needs Bucky to shatter all his hopes into pieces so small he can’t pick them up and rebuild them later. Make him sweep them up and put all this nonsense behind him in the_ never gonna happen, move on _bin.

Bucky's eyes slide over Clint's body, not even attempting to hide their journey, before climbing back to his face. “Why would you think that?”

Clint shivers under the scrutiny. “Uh, last night. I all but handed you an engraved invitation and you hard passed. I mean, I get if hard, near-naked, and desperate isn’t your type...”

“You remember that?” Bucky seems genuinely taken aback.

“I remember everything.” The words come out heavier than intended, heat crawling up his neck as dream images swirl in front of his eyes. He forces a healthy dose of self-deprecation into his voice, trying to cover. “Pretty hard to forget such a spectacular rejection, Barnes.”

“Oh. Well.” Bucky clears his throat. He refocuses on the cast in his lap, pressing the pen down once more, suddenly very interested in his artistic efforts. “You were pretty wasted, and I know it was a case of me being the nearest warm body on offer. The _ only _ warm body." He shrugs. "I know what it’s like to not have control. To regret things you can’t remember later. I didn’t want that for you.”

Oh.

Darkness settles over Bucky, smothering out the warmth and light from moments ago, and Clint hates himself a little more. His mind churns, trying to find something to chase that haunted look from Bucky's eyes. To make him smile again.

_ Well there’s always… _

“I’m not always like that, y’know. I’ve been a little… off, lately. The drunken come ons, well, no that’s not completely unheard of, but the uh,” Clint places mental duct tape over the voice inside his head screaming at him to shut up. This is his punishment for stealing Bucky’s warmth, he is going to burn in a fiery pit of humiliation. Again. “The, um, licking your neck and begging and so forth. That’s not really my standard operating procedure."

Bucky raises an eyebrow, a hint of light returning to his eyes.

_ Christ this is awkward. _ "The thing is, I've been having these..." He clears his throat. "...dreams lately. About you."

Clint feels Bucky shift under his leg. "Dreams? As in, more than one?"

“Ah, yeah. All week, actually. And they're kind of personal dreams. _Intimate_." He shakes his head. He is drawing the line at adding _ wet _ to the adjective list. If Bucky can't pick up what he's laying down, that's not his problem. "Anyway, I guess the accident must have knocked them out of my head, but this morning, my meet-cute with the door must have knocked them back in." He shrugs in what he hopes is an offhand, casual, not-at-all-a-big-deal way. Lying through body language.

He waits for the flash of Bucky’s dazzling teeth, the low husky laugh, the playful shove against his shoulder. The soul-destroying mockery. But none of it comes. 

Bucky is looking at him strangely. "I thought you said you didn't remember the dreams until this morning?"

Clint blinks stupidly. Well, this isn’t following the script. He nods.

"But you were licking my neck last night..."

"Oh. Yeah."_ Shit. _ "I guess… even though my brain forgot, it feels like... my body... remembers. They were pretty intense dreams.”

Bucky is silent for a moment. “I’m sorry.”

Clint feels off balance again. A side effect of being around Bucky he is coming to accept even if not particularly like. This is not at all going to plan. Bucky is supposed to be laughing at him, not looking over at him with big doe eyes, squeezing his calf… _and, oh, that feels nice._ _No. Focus. _"Trying to take credit, Barnes? Did HYDRA share some of their brainwashing secrets with you before you ram-scrayed?"

The dark look that flashes over Bucky's face is enough to make Clint feel a little guilty. Just a smidgen. "Sorry, too soon?"

Bucky rolls his eyes and shakes his head. 

"I just mean, you didn't put those dreams in my head."

Bucky's eyes fall from Clint's face to where he has started wringing his hands in his lap, pen now abandoned. Clint watches as metal fingers press into flesh ones so hard he’s worried they’re going to snap.

"No, I didn't, but.." Bucky's words lose power as they leave his mouth, dwindling like a battery run down to empty. 

Clint waits for him to power up again and finish the sentence. Seven seconds of silence seems to be his limit. "But what?" 

Still intensely interested in the wrestling match taking place in his lap, Bucky drags the rest of the words out. "But I know who did. It, uh, was Wanda."

Clint's whole body recoils as the information hits him like a physical blow. It takes him a moment to find his words, but when he does, they’re tight and hard. "What the actual fuck, Barnes? What, the two of you cooked up some weird little prank just to mess with me?”

"No! Fuck, Barton, nothing like that. I just... I was talking to Wanda, telling her about..." Each word sounds like it's being forcibly pulled from Bucky's chest, kicking and screaming, clawing at his lips, trying desperately to crawl back in his throat. "...the dreams I was having. I've_ been _having. For a long while. About you." 

Bucky scrubs his hand over his face. Clint watches as it pushes through the strands of hair framing Bucky’s face before taking its leave down the long locks, coming to rest in the space between their bodies on the couch. 

"She wanted me to talk to you, but I knew you were oblivious.” Clint's raised eyebrow garners a small head tilt of apology. "I asked if she could," Bucky gestures with his hands, wriggling his fingers, "do her thing and pull the dreams out of my head." 

"...and put them in mine?"

"No! That was... that was never supposed to happen. When I got back a few days ago, she told me she'd -- ah, shown you the dreams that night after we’d spoken. I think she was trying to be sweet. Helpful? She was..." Bucky's cheeks, which have steadily been blooming into color since the confession began, now burn at maximum saturation. "...trying to play match-maker." 

No longer dragging their feet, Bucky's words all grab hands and pull out in a rush, like a chain of magician's handkerchiefs all tied together. "She swore she did it just the once, though, that first night, and she wasn't trying to hurt you, just trying to get you to see me in a, uh, different light, I think, that’s not an excuse and doesn’t make it right, but that's all it was, no malice and just the once, I don't know why you kept having the dreams after that... " Bucky breaks off, Clint suspects, only because his lungs have run out of air. 

It is a lot to process on a good day, and today is not a good day.

“I —-” The shrill synthetic alarm clock sounding from his phone cuts him off. Six hours, his brain registers dully.

Clint grabs the phone and thumbs off the alarm. He pulls his leg from Bucky’s lap and pushes off the couch.

“I can fix you something…”  
  
Clint doesn’t look at him as he shoves his phone into his pocket and grabs the crutches from where they’re leaning against the couch. “I’m not hungry.”

Clint’s mind is reeling. He’s been hit by a car, broken an ankle, landed two concussions and a hangover, and somehow all that pales in comparison to the pain currently slicing hot and sharp through his chest.

“Cli — Barton…?”

Clint tries to ignore the twang in his gut at the painful uncertainty in Bucky’s voice, focusing instead on the long journey back to his room. He doesn’t turn to face Bucky, just lets his voice carry back over his shoulder as he goes. “I just need to lay down for a bit, but I’m fine. Six hours, right? Babysitting duty is over.” His voice sounds flat to his own ears, but he congratulates himself for stringing that many words together at all.

He hears Bucky rise behind him and isn’t sure if it's relief or resentment that shoots through him when Bucky makes no move to follow him. To stop him. A little of both, he decides. 

As the distance between him and Bucky increases, so does the tightening in his chest. Not wanting to inspect that connection too closely, Clint continues his slow progress to his room. He ponders slamming his skull into a wall on the way there, craving that sweet oblivion that comes with head injuries. He decides against it, opting instead for the promise of unconsciousness awaiting him in his bed, hoping against hope, that just this once, the universe takes pity on him and denies him dreams.


	6. Smoke and Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m saying you don’t exactly make a habit of getting more than casual with anyone, and this thing between you and Bucky, it seems like more than just scratching a temporary itch. I think you need to figure out where he fits.”
> 
> “Where he fits?” He could think of a few places he’d like to try. Clint grabs hold of his mind as it swan dives toward the gutter.“What do you mean fits?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Beta'd by the amazing [FestiveFerret](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FestiveFerret), to whom I pretty much owe my soul at this point. I did tweak it a little after she worked her magic, so any remaining mistakes are mine. All mine. 
> 
> ii. Fic has been upgraded (downgraded?) from M to E. Please heed tags.
> 
> iii. Using my free square in WinterHawk Bingo: gonna label it... dreams. For obvious reasons. \o/

A broken sob tears from his throat. Clint throws his head back as he sinks down into Bucky with one long, slow slide. Fingers dig into Bucky’s hips as Clint tilts his own, pressing impossibly closer, until their bodies are a sweat-slicked expanse of connected skin, no divining where he ends and Bucky begins.  
  
Clint’s head spins at the sensations flooding his body. Engulfed in tight heat, Clint can feel Bucky trembling and clenching around his aching cock, that perfect ass pushing back against him, throaty moans falling from his lips. The heady mix of Bucky and sex hangs heavy in the air.  
  
Clint runs his hands over Bucky’s back, curving down around the swell of his ass checks, drawing them apart as he drags slowly out of Bucky’s body, watching the tight ring clutch greedily at his cock. Bucky whines his displeasure at the loss, the sound muffled by the way he’s shoving his face down into the mattress, but it’s loud enough to carry to Clint’s ears and send a thrill of pleasure rocketing to his core.   
  
As the head of his cock slips free he watches Bucky’s hole wink closed, empty, before running his leaking slit over the puckered ring. He hears Bucky groan his name as his precome messes Bucky’s entrance, already sloppy and shiny with lube.  
  
Impatient hips rock back, pressing against him, searching for the blunt pleasure of his cock, needing to be filled, and Clint can’t stop the husky laugh sliding from his throat.  
  
“So eager, Barnes. Who knew you were such a desperate cockslut?”  
  
Bucky gasps at the words, his hips stuttering and jerking wantonly.  
  
“Yeah, baby, you want me inside you? Gonna milk my cock with your pretty ass?  
  
Bucky’s head is scrubbing back and forth against the mattress frantically, words swallowed up by the mattress before they can reach Clint’s ears.  
  
“I can’t hear you, Barnes, gonna need to hear you say it before you get this,” Clint takes himself in hand and rubs lazy stripes over Bucky’s ass.  
  
“_Barton._ Just shut up and fuck me already.”  
  
Bucky is so beautiful like this, on all fours, ass lifted high, golden skin burning pink, sweat-damp hair, and need rolling off him in waves. All but begging for it. Clint’s own skin burns at the thought.  
  
“Where are you manners, Barnes?”  
  
“Fuck off.” Bucky ruts back against him now, trying to take his pleasure with or without Clint’s participation.  
  
Clint slips a hand off the gorgeous ass in front of him, letting it glide over Bucky’s hip, down to wrap around his straining cock.  
  
“Ahh, oh, _ shit_ .”  
  
“What’s the magic word?” Clint’s grip tightens as he strokes up, his thumb coming to flick over the drooling head.  
  
“Ahh, Clint!” Bucky’s voice breaks, and Clint can feel restraint struggling against need. When he jerks Bucky roughly, steely defiance cracks with a whimper. “Yes, fuck, please, _ please _ .”  
  
Clint throbs at the words, nerve endings sparking under his skin, sending a fresh stream of slick leaking onto Bucky.  
  
“Yeah, that’s it, beg for my cock, you’re so fucking pretty when you beg.” Clint’s harsh pant matches his thrust as he sinks back into Bucky, feeling the warm wet heat sucking at him hungrily, and it’s the most like _ home _ he’s ever felt. Unwilling to surrender the tight embrace of Bucky again, he draws his hips back just enough to rock back down, his aim true, hitting the small bundle of nerves that makes Bucky shake and moan.  
  
Bucky shifts, angles his shoulder so hard metal fingers can reach back, clawing into Clint’s hip, his desperate voice breaking and taking Clint with it.  
  
“Ahhh, oh, Clint, I can’t -- I’m gonna come, gonna ---”  
  
Increasing pace and intensity, hammering into Bucky mindlessly, Clint loses all coordination and grace, his world shrinking to the burning pleasure of Bucky’s body. “Yeah, that’s it, come for me, baby.” Clint’s pants crest into a shuddering moan as he feels the clenching pressure on his cock. He grinds roughly, chasing his own pleasure as Bucky's hoarse cry sounds from below him. Clint feels his body drawing tight and ---  
  
\---- his eyes fly open as his hips jut off the bed, the tight heat of Bucky disappearing with the dream. He lays panting on the bed, hands fisting the sheets, his heart and cock throbbing in unison.  
  
. . .  
  
Clint sits on the edge of the tub and slides himself backwards, grimacing as water sloshes over the side, he lifts his cast higher reflexively. His already-made plans of sliding his way out of the bathroom later being reinforced exponentially. Given his last encounter where water plus slippery surface equaled head injury, broken ankle and amnesia, he wasn’t going to risk landing another crippling trifecta.  
  
He relaxes into the water, hanging his leg hardware over the edge, carefully. Soaping up a weird nylon-net-ball hybrid that must be stock standard in all tower bathrooms --because he sure as hell didn’t buy it-- he sets to work scrubbing two days of sweat and dirt off his body.  
  
He jolts when rough netting brushes over his still half-hard cock, washing the sticky dream remnants from his skin. His body gives a thrill of interest, his aching balls more than ready to lighten their load. He drags his hand away, releasing the net-puff, watching it pop up and float happily just out of reach. Clint claws at the edge of the tub, jaw set with determination. His ignores his traitorous body's pleas. His hand is not about to reward his dick's bad behavior.

He leans back into the curve of the tub, letting the warm water work at soothing the tension knitting his body together. He hums contentedly.  
  
Dark marks on his cast catch his eye. He’d almost forgotten. Bucky’s drawing from yesterday. His throat tightens as he takes in the small cartoon bird, sprawled on it’s feathery butt, legs splayed out in front of it --one in a cast-- an arrow with a heart-shaped tip clutched in its beak, a small spiral of stars swirling above its head.  
  
His heart is pounding so hard in his chest that it’s echoing in his ears.  
  
….or, that may actually be his bedroom door.  
  
“Barton, this is your wake up call!”  
  
Clint jerks upright in the water. “Nat?”  
  
“Be a doll and bring yourself out here, I don't want to see anything I can't unsee later.”  
  
"I wasn't expecting company. Keep your eyes closed until I give you the okay or you're you're in for a big surprise. _Very_ big."   
  
Clint ignores Nat's snort and leverages himself out of the bath; his upper body strength from years of archery paying off in unexpected ways. Leaving his dignity in the cooling water, he slides his ass across cold tiles until he feels the carpet bite at his skin, then flips over to all fours and crawls the rest of the way to the bed._ It doesn’t count if there are no witnesses. _  
  
Clint hoists himself to the bed, then pulls on his last clean pair of briefs followed Bucky’s sweatpants. He rolls them up three times before hesitating and adding one more roll just in case. Suitably presentable, Clint gives Nat the okay to open her eyes.   
  
She moves from the door frame where she's leaning, arms crossed over her chest, and settles herself cross legged on his bed, blowing out a slow breath. Calculated. Clint can almost hear the wheels turning in her head.   
  
“You are oblivious.” Her perfect lips pull up in a fond smile, and Clint scowls. Always the yin to her yang.  
  
“I am _not_ oblivious. I’m an archer. I have excellent powers of observation and incredible focus.”  
  
“So you noticed Bucky checking you out during the airport throwdown?”  
  
“I — what? No, the only time he looked in my general direction was when I was kicking your ass. He was probably just impressed at my hand to hand combat skills.”  
  
Her smirk pushes so far up her cheek her eyebrow lifts. “It wasn’t_ my_ ass he was interested in, and you know I had you beat, Barton. Don’t embarrass yourself trying to pretend otherwise.”  
  
Clint’s brain has been through a lot the last few days, so he isn’t overly upset that it takes him a moment to fully process Nat’s words. They grind through his brain sluggishly, snagging in the gears, and everything comes to a shuddering halt.  
  
“Wait. You knew?”  
  
Red lips purse together, twitching.  
  
“You knew the dreams were about Barnes?”  
  
The look Natasha gives him can only be translated into,_ oh you poor, dumb idiot._  
  
“This -- whole -- fucking -- time?”  
  
Nat has the good grace to look vaguely apologetic.  
  
“Why the hell didn’t you say something? What was with the guessing game? Why the hell is everyone messing with my head these days?”  
  
Nat rocks forward to grip his hands, her face tipping up so his field of view is filled with kind green eyes. “I didn’t want to push you. I know you like to keep those particular cards close to the vest and I didn’t want to force your hand. I figured I’d you a little nudge, and you’d tell me when you were ready.” Nat pauses for a moment, considering. “The guessing game was just to watch you squirm.”  
  
Clint sighs and metally scrubs a mark off his tally of wins against Natasha, putting it in her column instead. It's woefully unbalanced.  
  
“Did you know Wanda put the dreams in my head, too?”  
  
Nat’s eyes darken a little as she shakes her head. Her thumbs rub comfortingly over his skin.  
  
“I know you probably feel violated by what she did, and you have every right to, but Clint…” she chews her lip thoughtfully before continuing slowly. “...Is that _really _what you’re upset about?”  
  
Her pause gives him pause. It’s not like Nat to measure her words. Why is he upset? Nat sits quietly, hands still on his, with the look of someone who knows the answer to a tricky math problem and is waiting for him to find his own way there.  
  
“This… thing… with Bucky. What if it’s all just Wanda’s influence and none of it is real? I’ve had someone mess with my mind before.” Clint rubs absentmindedly at his chest, memories of New York flashing through his mind. “Color me not a fan. These aren’t even my dreams. Maybe they aren’t really my feelings, either.”  
  
Natasha rocks back on the bed, an encouraging eyebrow pulling up slowly and holding. Waiting.  
  
They aren’t his dreams. They’re Bucky’s dreams_. _Bucky’s. Dreams… about him. Oh.  
  
Nat smiles softly as understanding lights his eyes. “You are an archer, Clint. You have excellent powers of observation and incredible focus” --Clint’s eyes narrow at his words being thrown back at him-- “but archery has, by default, a long-range target, which means sometimes you miss the things right in front of your face.”  
  
Well, shit. He doesn’t really know how to respond to that.  
  
“You know Wanda needs close proximity to influence people. She’s been with the team for the last three days. When was the last dream?”  
  
Clint can feel his cheeks prickle with heat. “Uh, less than three days ago.”  
  
“So maybe they aren’t just Bucky’s dreams? Do you think maybe you’re just trying to give yourself an out? A convenient way to shrug off what you’re feeling for Bucky?”  
  
“You’re implying I wanted Wanda to mess with my head? To make my life into a fucking telenovela?”  
  
Russet waves shake as she dissents. “I’m saying you don’t exactly make a habit of getting more than casual with anyone, and this thing between you and Bucky, it seems like more than just scratching a temporary itch. I think you need to figure out where he fits.”  
  
“Where he fits?” He could think of a few places he’d like to try. Clint grabs hold of his mind as it swan dives toward the gutter.“What do you mean _fits?_”  
  
“In your... life.” Her voice makes it painfully clear she knows exactly which direction his thoughts had taken. “It’s clear that Bucky’s interested in more than friendship. But you skipped from teammates to… whatever it is you are now. You need to decide if you want to friendzone him.”  
  
“Friendzone? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”  
  
Nat snorts, which is aggravatingly adorable. “Do I really have to break this down for you, Barton? Alright,_ relationships for dummies_: The friendzone is when you like someone but aren’t sexually attracted to them, even though they’re attracted to you.”  
  
Clint grimaces. Memories of dream-Bucky on his knees, face pressing into the mattress, calling out Clint’s name as he comes apart at the seams send flames licking over his skin. Clearly not option A, then. He shakes his head and shifts discreetly on the bed.  
  
Nat’s lips quirk up, because of course she notices, before continuing. “If your favorite leather aficionado's body makes you want to do dirty, dirty things, but you don’t like him enough to actually upgrade your friendship status, just want to grind out some stress between the sheets, or on the couch or in the shower...” Nat trails off at the look on Clint’s face, eyes dancing mischievously. “Then that’s friends with benefits territory.”  
  
Clint hums thoughtfully. In the past few days Bucky had inched his way under Clint’s skin. And burrowed to deeper places he isn't sure he wants to give voice to. The image of Bucky, warm and soft as he recounts his Halloween adventures, settles in his mind. Clint hadn't even had to feign interest. He had been hooked on Bucky's every word like it was life support. Warmth settles in his chest like he’s swallowed a heat bag. Strike two. “What’s left?”  
  
Nat’s face goes soft, all traces of teasing gone. He head tilts to the left. “Everything.”  
  
Everything. His heart does a weird belly-flop in his chest._ Everything_. Clint had never really looked for anything serious. But maybe that’s because he’d never found anyone special… until he had crashed head first into Bucky. Literally. Bucky made him feel… well, he made him _feel__. _ Clint takes a slow breath, willing his racing heart to slow. Everything. With Bucky. That sounds… He gnaws on his lip. “What is it called if one person wants everything and the other doesn’t?”  
  
“Heartache.” Her voice is rueful. “But you know what they say, if someone is going to rip your heart out of your chest anyway, you might as well give it to them willingly.”  
  
Clint blinks at her. “I’m pretty sure no one has said that. Ever_._”  
  
She waves away his protest dismissively. “The only thing left is to make your couple name. Clint and Bucky make for quite a few possibilities. Clucky?” She laughs at the look on Clint’s face. “No? What about BarBar? Barton. Barnes. BarBar. It’s cute.”  
  
“It sounds like a children’s show.”

“B-Squared?”  
  
Clint wipes the exasperation off his face and tries to rearrange it to a carefully neutral expression, knowing his obvious dismay at her current line of thought will only spur her on further.  
  
“As much as I’d love to sit here and ponder such important things, I think I need to have a chat with everyone’s favorite assassin.”  
  
Nat frowns. “I’m not sure he’s still here.”  
  
“What do you mean not here? Where else would he be?”  
  
“Well, he’s the one that called me to come and babysit you. He was worried you’d try and make popcorn and set the tower on fire or something. Which isn’t really outside the realm of poss--”  
  
“Nat!”  
  
“Ah. I’m not sure where he was headed, Clint, sorry. He just seemed to think he’d overstayed your welcome.”  
  
“And you didn’t think to lead with that?”  
  
“I didn’t know you were going to have a come to Jesus moment, Barton. Or, come to James moment….”  
  
Clint hears her voice turn to soft laughter, filling the room and trailing after him as he grabs the crutches and graduates from step-hops to swing-leaps, and closes the distance between himself and the possibility of _everything_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iv. Though my art skills are nowhere near as good as Bucky's, I added my rendition of his cast graffiti above because I couldn't get it out of my head, and thought I'd press it all forcibly into yours, as well. :D


	7. I Wanna Take You For Granted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why the hell are we still vertical, Barnes? I take it you are agreeable to upgrading the friendship to something that requires less clothing and more thrusting?”
> 
> Bucky squeezes Clint’s ass. “Yeah. About that…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. &hearteyes emoji to Beta Extraordinaire, FestiveFerret for putting up with me, fixing my words, and letting me steal some of hers. Again. 
> 
> ii. Due to my slight detour through angst-town, the chapter count has been padded out slightly to allow for more words and a few pixels.
> 
> iii. Winterhawk Bingo: Competent Clint. ('Cause let's be real, this is the first thing he's got right in seven chapters...)

Panic sparks in a dozen places at once, like a pinball ricocheting around his body, spurred on by the frantic beat of his heart.  
  
Clint is certain Bucky isn’t in his room --the truly obnoxious banging Clint had made on Bucky’s door would have roused the dead-- but he’s nowhere to be found on the common floor of the tower, either.  
  
With fingers of exhaustion and dread threatening to choke him, Clint pulls out the only weapon he has left.   
  
_I’ve fallen and I can’t get up._  
  
Clint sends the message then plants himself in front of the elevator. Sagging slightly on his crutches, he waits. And hopes.  
  
It takes six minutes and fourteen seconds --not that Clint is counting-- before Bucky is bursting through the stairwell door. He skids to a stop two steps clear. Chest heaving, his eyes narrow on Clint’s obviously not horizontal body.  
  
Clint licks his lips nervously. He might have misjudged this a little. He repositions the crutches and turns himself toward the assassin slowly stalking his way.  
  
“Uh, hi.” _Smooth, Barton, so smooth._  
  
“What. The. Fuck.” Each word falls from Bucky’s lips perfectly synced with his strides forward. Clint is more than a little impressed, if not a little scared. Bucky stops within touching distance. Within murdering distance.  
  
“Why did you leave?”  
  
“Why aren’t you laying concussed on the floor?”  
  
“Oh. I, uh, might have over-exaggerated a bit.”  
  
Bucky’s eyes narrow. Clint ignores the Eyebrow Raise of Disbelief™.  
  
“Okay, so, by a bit, I mean a lot.” All the moisture troops stationed in his mouth had abandoned their post at Bucky’s murder strut, and Clint dispatches his tongue to scrape along dry lips in the vain hope of replenishing the front line. “But I needed to talk to you.”  
  
“So talk.”  
  
Oh, this is _so_ gonna suck. Clint makes a mental promise to himself that should this fail spectacularly, he is going to hop to the bar and not leave it until he is beyond crawling.  
  
“I wasn’t upset about Wanda putting the dreams in my head. I mean, well, yeah I was, of course.” Clint huffs. _Jesus._ If he trips over any more words, he’s going to break something else. Taking a steadying breath he tries again. “It was the idea that it was all a lie, that I was being carried away by thoughts in my head that weren’t even mine. But the truth is...” Clint’s courage falters and he drops his head, unable to hold Bucky’s gaze. “These past few days with you... it’s not my head running away with me, or my dick, sloppy drunk groping notwithstanding, it’s my heart.”  
  
Clint’s voice drops low, and he’s not sure if he hopes Bucky can hear it, or hopes he can’t, but he pushes the last of the confession out quickly. “You make me feel things that I’ve never felt before. Scary things. Things I shouldn’t be feeling after three days. Things I can’t blame solely on the head injury.” The corner of his lip twitches up. “..._injuries_. Uh, what I’m trying to say is I didn’t over-exaggerate. Not really. Because I think--” Clint bites the tip of his tongue, irrationally afraid of swallowing it as his throat bobs. “I think I have fallen. Or, half-fallen. Am in the process?” He shakes his head at his clumsy words. “I think I might be falling... for you.”  
  
Clint’s face burns hot as his confession hangs in the air between them. Hours pass in seconds before cool metal fingers are pressing under his chin, tipping his head up.  
  
Bucky’s lips don’t move, but his eyes are saying everything Clint needs to hear. Clint’s breath catches in his throat as Bucky’s fingers trail across his cheek and wrap around the back of his neck. With one smooth tug, Bucky pulls him close, bending down to claim his mouth.  
  
Clint can’t stop the moan that spills into Bucky’s mouth at the contact. He’d feel embarrassed save for the way Bucky swallows it down and growls like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. The sound makes Clint’s knee give out, his arms circling around Bucky’s neck, the crutches clattering loudly to the floor. Bucky’s hands wrap around Clint’s waist before he can fall, jolting him upward, breaking their kiss. Strong arms come to wrap under his ass, anchoring him in place.  
  
Clint’s arms drape over Bucky’s shoulders, his new position affording him a different perspective of that beautiful face. He stares down at sparkling eyes, his hands dancing through dark hair. Wrapping his legs around Bucky, one more awkwardly than the other, he grinds against the hard wall of Bucky’s stomach.  
  
“Why the hell are we still vertical, Barnes? I take it you_ are _agreeable to upgrading the friendship to something that requires less clothing and more thrusting?”  
  
Bucky squeezes Clint’s ass. “Yeah. About that…”  
  
Clint’s brain is more than a little oxygen deprived --given all the blood in his body is currently throbbing against Bucky’s belly-- but he registers the sharp edge to the words. Bucky saunters lazily to the couch, and Clint, enjoying the delicious motion of every step, cocks his head in silent question. Bucky sinks gently onto the plush cushions, helping Clint unlock his legs, bringing them to rest, folded, either side of thick thighs, cast hanging off the edge.  
  
“Is couch sex one of those things you’re into? Exhibitionism? Does the thought of having the team arrive while you’re balls deep inside me get you going, Barnes?” Clint waggles his eyebrows suggestively, but his voice is low and hungry.  
  
Clint loves watching Bucky’s composure stretch thin, to see restraint and desire battling in those pretty eyes. He loves it less when Bucky opens his mouth.  
  
“We can’t.”  
  
“Oh, we really, really can.” Clint grinds on Bucky’s lap, bending to suck bruises into his neck.  
  
“Uhh, all pants are, _oh_, staying on until you get the --”  
  
Clint scrapes his teeth over Bucky’s throat and rocks over the straining black denim pressing up against him.  
  
“-- ahh,_ fuck_, the all clear from the doctor.”  
  
Clint reels back and stares at Bucky, shaking his head slowly. “Yeah, no. My appointment isn’t until tomorrow.” He snakes his hand under Bucky’s shirt, sliding over miles of smooth skin until he finds a small nub standing to attention. He twists it harshly between impatient fingers. Bucky’s resulting gasp sends twin jolts of _serves you right _and_ fuck that’s hot_ coarsing through Clint’s body. “Can’t wait that long.”  
  
“No... strenuous... activity, Barton,” Bucky grinds out harshly. “And me fucking you into this couch right now would be very, very strenuous.”  
  
Clint bites back a whimper. “Acceptable risk.” He grinds urgently, feeling Bucky’s hard desire rub against his own. “I’ll sign a waiver.”  
  
Strong hands press down on him, forcibly stopping the friction.  
  
Clint whines. Fucking supersoldier strength. He licks a wet trail up Bucky’s neck, letting hot breath carry his words over the flushed shell of Bucky’s ear. “It doesn’t have to be strenuous. I can just slide up and down on your cock all nice and slow-like.”  
  
Hard fingers press bruises into Clint’s skin. Clint’s retaliatory nip at Bucky’s ear is rewarded with a low moan.  
  
“You’ve been teasing me for a week, Barnes. Time to get out of my dreams and into my body. I _need _to come.”  
  
Bucky growls, grips Clint’s hair and tugs his head back, claiming his mouth roughly. Clint is mostly sure it's to shut him up, but he’s not complaining. Bucky is kissing him like his life depends on it. All hard teeth, wet heat, nipping, and sucking. Devouring Clint in a way that makes him dizzy. Bucky’s strong hand clutches at the back of his neck, urging him closer, swallowing down his whimpering moans, licking away every trace, and pulling more from his throat.  
  
Just when Clint is sure he’s going to spill in Bucky's sweatpants --and damn if that thought doesn't make him impossibly harder-- Bucky breaks the kiss with a desperate groan. Their harsh, panting breaths are the only sound in the room.  
  
..until the elevator’s chirping _ding._  
  
The doors open to the sound of five people having three conversations at the same time, but as the pile of bodies file out into the room and ten eyes land on Bucky and Clint on the couch, the room falls silent once more.  
  
Though Clint is pretty sure he can hear Natasha’s smirk from clear across the room.  
  
“Oh, hell no. I’m out.” Sam’s voice is the first to break the silence, and he’s the first one to make a beeline back into the elevator.  
  
“Oh, hey, it’s the team. Hi, team.” Clint’s voice is breathless --understandable given the circumstances, really-- and he chuckles softly when he feels Bucky’s head drop and bury into the crook of his neck.  
  
“You better not be getting any fluids on my couch or you’ll be buying me a new one.” Tony’s usual glib voice is strained. “And I _will _be checking.”  
  
“Ah, uh, hey, Buck.” Steve rubs at the back of his neck, looking anywhere but the couch. He nods awkwardly in their direction. “Barton.”  
  
“Cap.” Clint knows he shouldn’t sound so cheery in the face of Steve’s obvious discomfort, but with Bucky between his thighs, it can’t really be helped.  
  
“You know, if you two were looking for an audience, you just had to ask. I could have delayed these guys for…” Nat breaks off, lips qurking as her eyes rake over them, assessingly. “...another three minutes.”  
  
Banner stands quietly, looking at his shoes, his face a mix of uncomfortable amusement.  
  
Clint knows he should have the good grace to bow to social decorum and climb off Bucky. But he doesn’t. Instead, he finds himself taking advantage of the way Bucky’s distraction causes his grip to falter. Clint rolls his hips, grinding roughly, tearing a gasp from Bucky’s throat.  
  
“Right!” Tony claps his hands together. “That’s my cue! I’ll be in the workshop doing, uh, work type things. Rogers, care to lend a hand?”  
  
Clint would have put money on Steve having achieved maximum redness, but as he nods jerkily and follows Stark into the elevator, his skin brightens. He looks two degrees off igniting.  
  
Bruce’s quiet voice draws Clint’s attention. “Yeah, I think I should also be... somewhere… that’s not here...”  
  
Clint’s dick releases some blood back to his brain at Bruce’s departing chuckle. It’s a self-serving gesture.  
  
“Hey, Banner? Got a minute?”  
  
Bruce turns, but his eyes are focused on the wall beyond the couch, approximately three inches above Clint’s eyeline. “That would depend on what you want the minute for.”  
  
“You got any paper on you?” Clint ignores the way Bucky hisses his name. "I need a doctor’s note.”   
  
“A note?”  
  
“Mhmm. I had a little, uh, incident while you were off saving the world. Landed myself with a concussion --“  
  
“_Two_. He has had _two _concussions in_ three_ days.”  
  
Clint is going to have to put something in Bucky’s pretty mouth to keep him from interrupting. “And I read --”  
  
“And _I _read --”  
  
Clint rocks against Bucky again and is rewarded by another moan that Bucky bites off. Hands are bruising into his hips again.  
  
Clint continues as if he hadn’t been rudely interrupted. “--that you shouldn’t partake in strenuous activity until you’re given a clean bill of health.”  
  
A muscle ticks in Bucky’s jaw, eyes glittering dangerously.  
  
_Two can play at that game. _He stares into the disapproving blue eyes, making sure his words are loud enough to carry over his shoulder to Bruce. “And even though I’ve assured him I feel plenty healthy, Bucky is holding his dick hostage until I get the all clear, so… help a guy out with the ransom demands?”  
  
“_Barton._”   
  
Clint just smiles sweetly at Bucky, watching his face bloom into a very fetching shade of scarlet.  
  
“Uh, I’m not sure I’m really the right…”  
  
“Bruce, you’re more than qualified. You were healing plague patients in India when we first met.”  
  
Bruce swivels to look at Natasha, seemingly grateful to have somewhere safe to rest his eyes, even though_ her _eyes are locked onto the flushed men on the couch.  
  
“It wasn’t the plague, it was just...” He trails off as Natasha’s eyes drag reluctantly to his. At her pointed look and head jerk in the couch’s direction, he changes tack. “But, yeah, I could do that. Sure.”  
  
Bruce runs through a laundry list of questions, checks Clint’s pupillary response --Nat helpfully offering up her phone’s flashlight for the cause, because she’s the best wingman, ever-- and lays gentle fingers against his erratic pulse. All while Clint stubbornly refuses to move from Bucky’s lap.  
  
Taking the piece of paper and pen from Nat’s hand, Bruce scribbles on it and hands it to Bucky. Turning on his heel, Bruce snags Nat’s wrist and all but drags her to the elevator.  
  
Clint snatches the note from Bucky’s fingers. He squints at the scrawl --he doesn’t know if Bruce actually_ is _a doctor, but he sure writes like one-- and smiles triumphantly as Nat’s ringing voice -- “Have fun, boys!”-- drifts out from between the closing elevator doors.  
  
Clint holds up the paper in front of Bucky, grinning like it’s the best show and tell moment of his life.  
  
_This note certifies that Clint Barton is medically sound to partake in strenuous and/or sexual activity._  
  
Bucky has reclaimed Clint’s mouth, abandoned the couch, and is halfway to the elevator before the note finishes fluttering to the floor.  
  



	8. Dancing Underneath the Skies of Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint groans. “If you keep teasing me like that, there’s gonna be another thing added to the list of things that are your fault and don’t count.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Beta'd by FestiveFerret. <3 As is my habit, I tweaked a few things after, so remaining errors all belong to me.  
ii. This chapter is just a smut sundae, with a sprinkle of feels and a crack cherry. Feel free to skip if such things aren't to your tastes.  
iii. Tags have been updated. Please heed them if you have smut-allergies.

By the time they get to Clint’s room, he has Bucky’s shirt off, abandoned in the elevator, and his jeans unzipped.  
  
By the time he’s on his bed, he has a new bruise marking his neck, the exact size and shape of Bucky’s mouth.  
  
And by the time Bucky is peeling the sweatpants from his body, he is about to explode. Or implode. All the plodes.  
  
Bucky stands at the foot of the bed, looking down at him, and for a fleeting, gut wrenching moment, Clint worries he’s about to experience a repeat of _ that _ night. He traps the thrill of doubt in his chest with his breath, and waits. He’s not going to beg. He’s pretty sure that’s going to come later. Hopefully right before he does.  
  
But Bucky hooks his thumbs in his waistband and pushes down his pants. Clint’s breath rushes from his body in noisy relief. The assassin going commando makes Clint impossibly harder. He swallows roughly. He was right about the big feet.  
  
Bucky toes off his boots and kicks the tangle of black clothing aside. He climbs onto the bed, stalking up Clint’s body, hovering over him. Clint fists Bucky’s hair and tugs him down, crushing their lips together. He licks at the invading flesh plunging into his mouth, hungry moans passing from one throat to the other.  
  
Clint breaks the kiss, breathless. He tugs at the waistband of his underwear, the only scrap of clothing left on either of them. “You can get rip-happy with these any time now, Barnes.”  
  
Bucky flashes him a smile, and then long hair is tickling his chest as Bucky’s lips brush a trail of chaste kisses down his body. The contact is fleeting - delicate promises lingering on his skin, the feather-light touches making his skin pebble, stretching up to soft lips, craving more. Clint’s fingers tangle in the soft strands impatiently, and he can feel the curve of Bucky’s lips against him. Bucky’s tongue snakes into his belly button and Clint’s hips twitch up. Okay, so that was unexpected...ly hot.  
  
His brain stalls when he feels that warm, wet mouth on his briefs. Bucky’s tongue laves at the fabric, tracing the shape of him, sucking at the spot where his cock is leaking, crying for release.  
  
Clint groans. “If you keep teasing me like that, there’s gonna be another thing added to the list of things that are your fault and don’t count.”  
  
Bucky’s teeth rake across his fabric-covered cock. “Oh, it’s gonna count.” Bucky pulls the cloth, now soaked with spit and slick, over Clint’s hips, down his legs, and carefully over his ankle. Clint’s cock springs free and reaches for it, needing heat and friction. A lot of friction.  
  
Bucky’s hand snags his before he can snag himself, and Clint whines pitifully. “Why bother rescuing me if you were just going to kill me like this? Cruel and unusual punishment, Barnes.”  
  
Clint feels the laugh slide out of Bucky’s mouth even as his cock slides into it. And, _ oh. _ After so much time spent dreaming of this moment, Clint is severely disappointed with his imagination. His fantasies didn’t come close to doing justice to the pure ecstasy that is Bucky’s mouth. Clint’s broken whimpers are shadowed by sharp tugs to Bucky’s hair as nerves spark bright and raw through his body.  
  
“Oh, god.” Clint’s head falls back against the pillow as Bucky’s head bobs up and down in a steady rhythm. Bucky’s lips are a tight seam around him, the force of suction hollowing his cheeks and pooling his spit as he works over Clint’s aching cock. Bucky’s tongue swipes over his slit and Clint jerks off the bed, thrusting deeper into Bucky’s mouth, rubbing against the back of his throat.  
  
“Fuck! No, no, stop!” 

Bucky’s mouth goes slack immediately, Clint’s cock slipping free from the wet heat. 

Clint shakes his head at the look on Bucky’s face, eyes lingering on shiny lips. Wetness borne from them both. He grits his teeth. “I didn’t wait all this time just to spill down your throat after two minutes.”  
  
“You mean thirty seconds?”  
  
Clint bristles at the self-satisfied smirk on Bucky’s face. Smug bastard. “Just shut up and fuck me, Barnes. You know you want to.”  
  
“You know _ you _ want me to.” The smirk pushes higher. “Where do you keep your, uh, supplies?”

“Supplies?”  
  
The flush that spreads over Bucky’s skin is the perfect shade of adorable. “Yeah, um, lube?”  
  
Clint’s laugh increases Bucky’s saturation. Of all the filthy things Bucky does with his mouth, it’s cute as hell that he gets flustered over things like… oh. Lube. The laugh dies in his throat.  
  
“Shit.”  
  
Bucky sighs. “Let me guess, buying some is on your To Do List right under doing your laundry?”  
  
“I mean, I have been _ slightly _ inconvenienced the past few days if you hadn’t noticed. I think I should get a pass.” Clint’s lips twist thoughtfully. “Completely unrelated, but how much saliva is a supersoldier capable of producing?”  
  
Bucky growls and flips him over. Clint’s face pushing into the pillow muffles his protests. Not like they would’ve made any difference. He shifts his leg, moving his injured ankle to a better position, ignoring the slight flash of pain that streaks up his leg. Clint turns his head to the side, seeking less pillow, more air.  
  
“Barnes?”  
  
Clint feels the bed dip next to his head, sees the glint of silver as Bucky plants his hands either side of his body, legs bracketing his. He feels the hard length of Bucky slide between his ass cheeks. The rigid curve glides up and down the cleft of his ass, the motion pushing him down into the mattress as Bucky drives against him.  
  
“_Uunnnfff. _ ” It’s the only thing Clint can manage.  
  
A large hand presses down on the small of his back, trapping his aching cock against the bed, each thrust of Bucky’s cock making his own scrub against the mattress. Heavy balls smack his ass, the slapping sounds of flesh on flesh blanketing the room as Bucky’s pace increases. Bucky’s precome slicks his skin, and he can feel his own dampening the sheets beneath him.  
  
It shouldn’t be so hot, having Bucky use his body to take pleasure with no regard for his, but as Bucky grinds above him, against him, Clint could burn up from the thought alone.  
  
“Ahh, _ Clint _ .” Harsh panting breaths and choked out moans fill Clint’s ears, making his head swim as Bucky ruts against him frantically.  
  
Clint pushes his head down into the mattress, letting the harsh jerking movements roll through him, rocking his body on the bed as Bucky comes with a strangled cry above him. Bucky’s seed splashes hot over Clint's skin as the erratic motions subside.  
  
Bucky collapses onto him, and Clint’s breath leaves him in a loud _ oof. _ Bucky is exactly as heavy as he looks.“Uh, get off.” It’s pillow-muffled, but clear enough.  
  
Bucky nips at the back of his neck, murmuring, “I just did,” before rolling away.  
  
Clint drags his face over the pillow and stares at Bucky. “So, aside from _ hot as fuck _, what the hell was that?”

He jolts when he feels lazy fingers running over his ass, dragging down to.. _ Ahh. _ Clint rocks his ass up as Bucky’s come-covered fingers rub around his hole and push into him. His mind paints a very vivid picture to accompany the feel of Bucky’s fingers trailing over his skin, collecting the milky release, and dragging down to press inside him. And fuck if it isn’t the most erotic thing he’s never seen.  
  
“You needed lube. Now you have some.” Bucky’s fingers continue to work and stretch his now sloppy hole.  
  
“Uhh, congratulations. You managed to solve one problem and, oh, _ fuck. _ ” Clint rocks his ass back again as three fingers spread out within him. “Ahh, create another one. How are you going to fuck me when you’ve already--”  
  
Clint should be used to being tossed around like a ragdoll at this point. He really should. And yet, as he finds himself being flipped over, back coming to press into the mattress, cock jutting into empty air, he still manages to be surprised. When his eyes dip down to the still very hard cock jutting out from between Bucky’s thighs, dark red and shiny with come, Clint’s surprise morphs into astonishment.  
  
Bucky grips Clint’s waist and twists him, turning his hips to the side, giving himself better access to his target.  
  
“How the fuck are you still har--”

Clint feels the head of Bucky’s cock force into him.  
  
“--ahhH! Fuck!”

Bucky stills, chest heaving. “Good?”  
  
Clint’s head moves up and down in a jerky imitation of a nod. “_More. _ ”  
  
Bucky doesn’t need to be told twice. Clint’s eyes roll back in his head as Bucky sinks deep inside him in one long slide, stopping only when his balls are pressing tight against Clint’s body.  
  
“Oh… my… god.” Pleasure floods his body, making his mind go soft around the edges, lost in the burning stretch of his body clutching at Bucky, and the heavy fullness cocooned inside him. He wonders, albeit fuzzily, if staying like this forever is an option. Just wholly impaled on Bucky’s cock, stretched out and filled so completely.  
  
Bucky rolls his hips, his cock rubs over Clint’s prostate and his brain shuts down completely. Clint’s mouth falls open as his brows draw down, a cracked cry breaching his throat.  
  
Bucky stills again, running a hand over the swell of his ass.  
  
Clint shakes his head, trying to grind back against Bucky. “No... no stopping.”  
  
He can feel inch after inch of hard flesh dragging out of him as his greedy hole sucks at Bucky, his body objecting to the yawning emptiness left behind. Bucky pauses when the head of his cock is the only thing locking them together. Clint clenches desperately at the tease of Bucky still inside him, need flaring hot and unyielding. Restraint cracking and falling away, Bucky moans and plunges back down into the welcoming embrace of Clint’s body.  
  
Bucky’s hips set a punishing pace, thrusting into Clint. Jolting from the motion each time Bucky bottoms out inside him, Clint’s cock is twitching untouched, spitting a steady stream of precome onto the sheets. Clint fists his own hair, nails digging painfully into his scalp, seeking an anchor as an ocean of bliss floods his body, threatening to drown him.  
  
“Oh, fuck. I’m so close. Don’t stop, Bucky. _ Please. _ ”  
  
Bucky’s hips stutter and stall. Clint whines.  
  
“Say that again.” Bucky’s low voice sends a fresh wave of heat dancing over his skin.  
  
“...Please?”  
  
“Not that.”  
  
Clint’s brain sends out desperate fingers, reaching for the magic word, but the fingers are clumsy, and the words are slippery. He doesn’t know what Bucky… oh.  
  
“_Bucky. _ ”  
  
Bucky growls and slams back into him, the force enough to make the bed frame gouge the wall, dark blue paint chips raining down into his hair.  
  
_ Oh. _  
  
Bucky grips his ass, turning him slightly, angling his own hips as he fucks into Clint in short, rough thrusts. Sparks explode behind Clint’s eyelids, the new position putting Bucky on a constant collision course with the nerve cluster inside him.  
  
“Ahh, Buck, yeah, oh god, right there.”  
  
“I’ve wanted you for so long. Just like this.” Bucky’s voice is strained, ground out on short breaths. “To have you laid out under me, to see what you look like when you come for me."  
  
Clint feels nails rake over his skin, new red scrapes to go with his fading black bruises. New marks. _ Bucky’s _ marks.  
  
“Oh, fuck, I’m gonna come.“  
  
Bucky’s cock kisses his prostate once more, pushing him over the edge. Clint’s body goes rigid, his stomach constricting, curving him forward, the muscles in his legs spasming violently.  
  
“Ahh, Buuuckk… _ Bucky! _ ” He shatters into a million pieces, a kaleidoscope refracting sharp shards of pleasure, splintering through his shuddering body as his cock throbs and unloads over his belly and the bed, his ass clenching around Bucky.  
  
The gossamer strings tethering him to reality fray and snap completely. He registers the hoarse sound of his name on Bucky’s lips, feels the hot pulses as Bucky spills deep in his belly, nails biting deeply into his skin, sending small spots of pain bursting like fireworks in his brain. But he’s lost, drifting as his body jerks and twitches, a sparking trail in the wake of devastating pleasure.  
  
He feels warm hands rubbing over his skin as he lets himself float into darkness.  
  
  
. . .  
  


“I was wrong.” Clint feels Bucky’s _hmmm?_ rumble through the chest currently trapped below his cheek. “Out of the three times I’ve needed rescuing, all three times were your fault, so none of them count.”  
  
Bucky’s chuckle makes Clint’s head jostle softly. “Well, it’s a good thing I was the one to rescue you, then.”  
  
Clint drapes his arm across the broad chest currently doubling as his pillow, and trails his fingers over the patchwork of bruises masquerading as Bucky’s skin. “So, how does the whole enhanced human thing work?”  
  
“I thought I just gave you a crash course.”  
  
Clint turns his face and nips Bucky’s nipple between his teeth. Smart ass remarks deserve punishment. He ignores the resulting gasp. “I mean injuries. Doesn’t this hurt?”  
  
Clint feels Bucky’s shrug. “I guess. I’ve had a lot worse… “ Bucky’s words fall away, and Clint lets them go.  
  
He slides over Bucky’s body in a way that is nowhere near as smooth as he pictures it in his head. He brushes his lips over the trails his fingers were tracing just moments before.  
  
Bucky stills completely. The rise and fall of his chest freezing mid-breath. “Clint?”  
  
Clint’s mouth continues its journey, pressing soft kisses on the discoloured skin. “Hmmm?”  
  
“What are you doing?” Bucky’s voice is tight, his chest refilling with a stuttering breath.  
  
“Kissing it better. It’s scientifically unproven to make things heal faster.” Clint presses his lips to the bruised body once more before raising his face to peer at Bucky, head tilting at the foreign, confused look he finds there. “Hasn’t anyone ever kissed something better for you, Buck?”  
  
Bucky clears his throat and shakes his head. “Not, uh, not like that.” His hand rakes through Clint’s hair, coming to rest at his neck, his thumb brushing back and forth over the skin it lands on.  
  
“Aw, look at you. Big. Bad. Winter. Soldier.” Clint presses his lips back to Bucky’s ribs, letting his tongue drag across the rainbow flesh between each word. A wet punctuation mark. “What would people say if they knew that beneath your chilly, crispy outer layer--” Clint presses another kiss to Bucky’s skin “--is a soft marshmallow center?”  
  
Clint barely stops the squeak --because manly men like himself do not squeak-- from flying out of his mouth as Bucky hauls him up until his lips are within kissing range. The moan Bucky’s clever tongue draws from him is much manlier, and Clint doesn’t bother even trying to stop it. He knows a losing battle when it’s tearing from his throat.  
  
“Soft, huh?”  
  
Clint trails his hand down Bucky’s belly, following the path of dark hair to Bucky’s newly piqued interest. ”Mmm. You’re right. Can’t have you proving me wrong, Barnes.”  
  
Stroking the rapidly firming flesh under his fingers draws a low noise of approval from Bucky.  
  
“Jesus, this refractory period is a supersoldier perk, huh? Where do I sign up?”  
  
“You just had some supersoldier in you, Barton. Want more already?”  
  
“Always with the jokes.” Clint swipes his thumb over the leaking head, smirking at the low noise that escapes Bucky’s lips.

Clint’s own gasp rings loud when Bucky switches their positions, flipping him until his back sinks into the soft mattress, grabbing his calves and sliding him down until his ass bumps against the solid heat of Bucky, his legs being lifted and draped over thick thighs.  
  
“And always with the uhh---”  
  
Bucky's silver hand wraps around both his own straining erection and Clint’s soft cock, jerking slowly. Clint groans at the hard length of Bucky pressing against him. The metal slides easily, Bucky’s drooling cock offering more than enough lubrication for them both.  
  
“--uhh, manhandling.”  
  
“What’s the matter, Barton? Seems you like me handling you.” Bucky’s fingers squeeze tighter as Clint’s cock starts to swell.  
  
“You gonna run your mouth the whole time you’re jerking me off?”  
  
Bucky shakes his head. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard you’re gonna be begging me to carry you to Nat’s party tonight.”  
  
Oh, shit. The party. “Unless one of your perks is super speed, I don’t think we’ve got time to come and get ready to go. Ordinarily I would choose the coming over the going, but I promised Nat we’d be there at nine.” Clint sighs. “That changes the options to coming or dying, and my preferences are unsurprisingly reversed in that situation.”  
  
The hungry look on Bucky’s face makes Clint’s cock harden and his knees weaken in a way that makes him grateful he’s already lying down. “Ever heard of multitasking, Barton?”  
  
Clint sighs as Bucky’s hand disappears from his cock, and wails when two thick fingers press into his fucked out hole and find his prostate.  
  
“Uhhh, _Bucky._”  
  
Bucky grunts and rubs the bundle of nerves again, Clint’s body jerking under the touch.  
  
He whines when Bucky’s fingers slide free, and he huffs when the bed shifts as Bucky stands.   
  
“How is you leaving me like this multitasking? It’s not even single-tasking.”  
  
Bucky’s laugh drifts over to him, along with an odd rustling sound. Clint knows he should be paying more attention to what Bucky’s doing, knows it is going to have consequences for him, but he can’t drag his eyes away from the strong curves and enticing hollows of Bucky’s body. He wraps his hand around his now throbbing cock.  
  
“I’m getting lonely over here. Gonna spend some quality time with my hand if you don’t come back and finish what you started.”  
  
Bucky turns and strides back to the bed, a plastic bag in his hand. Clint raises an eyebrow. “Ooh! What’s in the bag? Did you buy me a get well soon present? You shouldn’t have.”  
  
“I didn’t.” Bucky tosses the bag at him.  
  
Clint releases his cock and catches it. He peers inside. He lifts the roll out of the bag. “Tape? Is this some kind of kinky thing? ‘Cause nothing’s coming to mind. If you had rope, I’d have some direction to head in, but… tape?”  
  
He scowls when Bucky grabs the bag and tape from his hand, but when Bucky places the bag over his cast and starts taping it to his leg, Clint finally twigs.”Oh. Aren’t you the very definition of a boy scout.”  
  
“I figure one of us should be.” Bucky tosses the tape on the bed, reaching out to pull Clint to the edge of the bed. Strong hands pull him to his good foot before he’s lifted straight up, flush against Bucky’s chest. He wraps his arms around Bucky’s neck, and legs around Bucky’s waist, locking himself in place.  
  
Bucky strides toward the bathroom, and Clint feels the mis-matched hands on his ass, pulling him apart and positioning him. Bucky doesn’t break stride as he slides Clint down over his hard cock.  
  
“Oh my… _Buck_.”   
  
Bucky’s hands dig into Clint’s skin, and he knows he’ll have more bruises to add to his collection, but he doesn’t care because Bucky is lifting up and driving him down again, jerking off using his body.  
  
Dropping his head onto Bucky’s shoulder, he hears the rush of water and feels the steam settle on his skin. Bucky’s hand wraps around Clint’s cock as he steps into the shower.  
  
Clint doesn’t know what time it is. He doesn’t know if they’re going to make the party in time. All he knows is that they're going to get very, very dirty before they’re clean. 

  
  



	9. It's Something Unpredictable (But In The End It's Right)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re all very cute.” Nat's lips tip up, appeasing him.  
“Mhm. Me most of all. Though I’m pretty sure Bucky just wants me for my brains.”  
Nat’s laugh comes too quickly for Clint’s liking. “Yeah, because that’s what you’re known for.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Special thanks to beta extraordinaire, FestiveFerret, without who this fic would still be languishing in WIP hell, without an ending.   
ii. For WinterHawk bingo, square: ZOMBIES!

“You could have just wrapped yourself in white lace if Bucky was going to be carrying you around all night. I would have cued up _ The Bridal Chorus _ for your grand entrance.”  
  
If there’s one thing Clint can say about Nat’s voice, it carries.  
  
Five additional heads turn in the general direction of the elevator --in _ their _ general direction-- where Clint is currently nestled in his new favorite position against Bucky’s chest.  
  
Well. One of his favorite positions.  
  
He gestures to the cheap, mass-produced Skeleton costume he’d ordered off Amazon two months earlier. It’s one size too small, and now missing a printed Fibular and Tibia, having been amputated above his cast. “I could have, but it would be a shame to hide such amazing bone structure.”  
  
Clint ignores Nat’s groan, whistling as looks around. Candles and pumpkins, of all shapes and sizes, are glowing ominously from every flat surface of the common floor. Most are draped with, or resting atop, silky spider webbing that's too realistic for comfort. Black wreaths threaded with twinkling fairy lights adorn the walls, casting odd shadows, and adding to the whimsical atmosphere. Clint’s stomach rumbles on cue as he takes in the collection of gastronomical delights on offer, pouting when Bucky carries him right past them. They’re Halloween-themed, of course, and piled high on a black-sheet-covered pool table.  
  
With so much of Nat’s everyday life already spent playing a role, it amuses Clint that she is always so eager to dial it to eleven on Halloween.  
  
Bucky slides Clint onto the bar stool that really ought to have his name on it by now. Clint swallows nervously. Nat’s eyes are stormy, her demeanor matching her outfit: all black but for the white Peter Pan collar, her raven-tone wig pulled into tight braids hanging either side of her neck. Two beers wait on the bar in front of her as she twirls a plastic knife --Clint squints, he _ hopes _ it’s plastic-- between her fingers.  
  
“You’re late.” Nat’s voice is devoid of the usual sparkle.  
  
“Sorry, we---”  
  
“It’s Bucky’s fault.” Clint doesn’t mean to push Bucky so wholly under the bus, but, well... When push comes to shove, Nat is less likely to murder Bucky. He throws an apologetic look to Bucky who counters with a _ you’re hopeless _ smile and shakes his head.  
  
“Your outstanding bravery is just one of the things that makes you so attractive, Barton.”  
  
“Uh…” Clint’s brows scrunch down as peers at Bucky, trying to decide if that’s a compliment or not.  
  
Bucky snags the bottles, popping both caps before handing one to Clint. “Sorry we’re late. Clint wanted to be here earlier, but I insisted we wash up before coming.”  
  
Clint wraps his hands around his beer, hoping the chilled bottle will cool his rapidly flushing skin. Bucky has that sentence a bit backwards. His throat works as he half empties the bottle, ignoring the way Nat’s eyes narrow and dart between them.  
  
“Hey, Buck.” A pause and then, “Barton.” Steve’s voice breaks the tension, drifting over to them from the cluster of couches that he, Bruce and Sam are currently occupying. Bucky turns, looking grateful to twist out of Nat’s knowing scrutiny. His hand runs over Clint’s back warmly before he’s striding over to greet Steve, abandoning Clint to face Nat’s wrath alone. Rude.  
  
The glare of metal catching light grabs Clint’s attention, and he curves toward it, his mouth falling open before he can stop it. “Jesus, Stark. Please tell me that thing isn’t rigged for flight.” He stares at Tony’s costume. It’s like his Mark I suit and The Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz had a baby. It's definitely overkill, but given that it's Tony, it has to be expected.  
  
“Not yet. Romanoff’s invitation came too late to allow sufficient build time. Plans, however, have been made.” Tony pops a black and orange something into his mouth, munching away happily before accepting the beer on offer from Nat. He takes a long swig, washing his mouth clean. “Speaking of costumes, it has to be said, your plus one’s choice to come dressed as you is a little on the nose, but the resemblance is astoundingly accurate.”  
  
Clint rolls his eyes, refusing to take the bait. At least not outright. He can’t resist nibbling around the edges, though. “I don’t believe a man who’s come back from the dead so often it’s verging on implausible wouldn’t know a zombie when he sees one.”  
  
“Zombie, you say? I saw the sickly green skin, dead eyes, and assorted gashes... figured it was the early bird sans worm and coffee.”  
  
Clint’s eyes rake over Bucky. “I wish I looked that good in the morning.” His eyes move to the figure next to Bucky. “Making Steve come as a flying monkey was a nice touch, though.”  
  
“Actually, both costumes were his idea. I was going to come as the Scarecrow but I figured you or Barnes would’ve called dibs on that no-brainer.”  
  
Clint glares at Nat, but she doesn’t quell her laughter as she pushes off the bar and moves toward the couches, four fresh beer bottles clutched in her hands. He opens his mouth to throw a cutting remark Stark’s way, but he’s already clunking his way toward Steve, looking particularly awkward compared to Nat’s graceful movements.  
  
Bruce ambles up to the bar, taking the seat beside Clint, smiling at his sour look. Bruce follows his eye-line. “Is Nat responsible for Bucky’s costume, too?”  
  
Clint shakes his head. “That was all him. I think he relates to the whole _ dead inside, driven by a brain he can’t control, brought back to life _ thing in a way that is not at all healthy.” He pauses, taking in the deep black hollows painted under Bucky's eyes, then shrugs. “Or he just wanted an excuse to break out the eyeliner again.”  
  
“It suits him.”  
  
Clint nods, his loins twinging delightfully, because it really, _ really _ does. His eyes bounce over Bruce. “So, Einstein _ was _ Nat’s idea?”  
  
Bruce nods, a wry smile perking his lips in an almost apologetic way. “I had the coat.” He motions to the blue E=MC² tee half-obscured behind the lab coat. “Nat supplied the shirt and did the hair.” Bruce touches the wild mop, teased up and set in place, sprayed with what looked like --and god, Clint hoped it wasn’t-- white spray paint. “I wanted to come as Hulk, no costume required, but Nat threatened me with grievous bodily harm.”  
  
“Yeah, she does that.”

“Who does what?” Nat reappears, empty bottles trapped between her fingers. She discards them before hoisting herself onto the bar.  
  
“Stark. Makes an ass of himself. Constantly.” Clint smirks. Scoring a point when there's no one guarding the net is slightly hollow, but against Stark, he'll take it.  
  
Nat’s bullshit detector pings loudly in her “Hmmm.”  
  
“Hi! Hello! Sorry I’m late. I can only stay for a few minutes, I have a curfew.” Peter comes barreling through the stairwell door, dropping his backpack on the floor.  
  
Clint has spent so much time rotating tonight, he’s starting to feel like a human fidget spinner. “Is that -- are you really wearing _ your suit _ as a Halloween costume?”  
  
Peter shrugs, sheepishly. “Yeah. I didn’t really have time to make anything. Do you know Spider-man suits are like $33? It’s crazy. I figured I had this already tucked away at home, it would be wasteful to buy another one.” He grins. “It’s the first time I’ve been able to wear it out without the mask. It’s awesome!” His grin falters. “You don’t think Mr. Stark will mind, do you? It’s not like anyone knows. I mean, I passed five other Spider-Mans on my way here.”  
  
“Take a breath, kid. You’re all good. If he gives you any trouble, just tell him you asked me and I said it was fine.”  
  
Peter bounces on his feet. “Thanks, Ms. uh, Widow.”  
  
“Natasha.”  
  
“Ms. Natasha.”  
  
“Just Natasha.”  
  
Peter blushes and nods. He starts babbling about something to Bruce, Clint only understanding every third word. They continue their geek speak as they make their way toward the other party goers.  
  
Clint squints after them. “Gotta say, not sure if that’s the world’s laziest costume or absolute genius level.”  
  
Nat smiles as she refills her glass. “I think the world’s laziest costume prize goes to Sam. He didn’t even bother breaking out the wings.”  
  
Clint looks over to the couch cluster --rapidly becoming the black hole of superheroes-- and takes in Sam’s camouflaged appearance. His face twists in confusion. “He came to your Halloween party without a costume, yet he’s still breathing. Why?”  
  
Nat snorts. “He says he’s a G.I. Joe.”  
  
“As in... the action figure?”

“Apparently.”  
  
“But that’s like, literally what he wore last Thursday.”  
  
“Mhmm. Like I said, blue ribbon winner.” Nat’s eyes shift back to Clint. “Speaking of costumes, I was expecting you and Bucky to be rocking the matching couple outfits after that little display earlier.”  
  
Clint shuffles on his stool, the _ couple _ comment changing his disposition from slightly buzzy to warm and fuzzy. “Not enough lead time. Besides, I think we kinda go together.”  
  
“A skeleton and a Zombie? ”  
  
“Bones and groans, Nat.” He feigns a pout at her dubious look. “Okay, fine. But at least admit it’s better than Tin Can Man and Curious George over there.”  
  
“You’re all very cute.” Nat's lips tip up, appeasing him.  
  
“Mhm. Me most of all. Though I’m pretty sure Bucky just wants me for my brains.”  
  
Nat’s laugh comes too quickly for Clint’s liking. “Yeah, because that’s what you’re known for.”  
  
“_Hey! _ ”  
  
“Don’t worry, Barton, you do have a few other redeeming qualities.” Her voice drops low. “Besides, I really don’t think brains is what your particular zombie is hungry for.”  
  
Clint mentally congratulates himself for his full black and white face-up, effectively hiding the pink biting at his skin. “Nat, are you trying to make a bone joke here?”  
  
She doesn’t answer, but her eyes twinkle as she lifts her glass to her lips. A comfortable silence settles between them.  
  
Clint lets his mind wander. His thoughts meander down paths that always, inexplicably, lead to Bucky. Warmth swells in his chest before travelling down the well-worn path to his cock.

“You’re moving fast.”  
  
“You should see me with two working feet. I’m a Clint-shaped Blur.”  
  
“Not what I meant and you know it.”  
  
“Yeah. I know it’s crazy.” Clint looks over at Bucky, currently frowning at a wildly gesturing Peter, and smiles. “Or crazy stupid, the jury’s still out. But we could be fighting aliens tomorrow. _ Again._” He shrugs. “I could have died a few days ago. Time to carpe the diem, as Tony would say.”

“It’s not like you to have a knee-jerk reaction to almost dying. You almost die a lot.” She smiles at his scowl. “I just wouldn’t have thought Bucky is really your type.”  
  
Clint blinks stupidly at her. “I mean, have you seen him?”  
  
Nat pulls a face.  
  
“I don’t know, Nat. He’s ...interesting. And sweet. Hard to believe with that resting murder face, I know. He’s funny when he’s trying to be, and hilarious when he isn’t. And he’s weirdly thoughtful and kind and.. “  
  
Nat’s laughter dams his flow of words. “Oh, you are so fucked.”  
  
Clint snaps his mouth shut, because, Nat’s right. He is_ so _fucked. He sighs. “I know. He just... turns me on inside.”  
  
“Mmhmm.” Nat’s eyebrows twitch up.  
  
“Jesus. Not like that.” Clint pauses. “Okay, so not _just _like that. It’s more like ...he turns on a part of me that I didn’t realize was turned off. A part of me I didn’t even know was there.” He grimaces. This is getting way too introspective, a clear sign he has too much blood in his alcohol stream. He tips his beer to his lips and drains it.  
  
Nat stretches over the bar and grabs another one, handing it to him with a knowing look. One day, Clint will figure out her mind reading trick, but until then, the beer will do nicely.  
  
“So, when’s the wedding?”  
  
“Whose wedding?” Bucky’s voice sounds from right behind him and Clint startles, almost toppling off his stool. Strong hands catch his shoulders and steady him. Clint leans into the warm chest now pressing against him. Bucky’s arms slide over his shoulders, draping over his chest. He manages to stop himself purring. Barely.  
  
“Yours and Barton’s. It’s a thing two hot superhero types can do in these modern times, Barnes. And when it happens, I call dibs on being the _best _Best Man.”  
  
If looks could kill, Natasha would be on the floor, bleeding out, Clint charged with her murder.  
  
Bucky grins. “You may have to fight Steve for that title.”  
  
Nat’s answering smile is cocksure. “I can take him.”  
  
Bucky’s laugh follows her as she takes off in the direction of the couch. “I didn’t mean right now.”  
  
Bucky shifts, tilting his head against Clint’s. “Having fun?”  
  
Clint leans into the touch, breathing in Bucky’s signature smoky scent --and he needs to know what the hell that is-- and the new zesty lime notes from his own shampoo. “More now.”  
  
“Thanks for bringing me as your plus one.”  
  
Clint chuckles. “You were already planning on being here, you had your own invite.”  
  
Bucky_ hmmms_ thoughtfully, the noise reverberating into Clint. “True, but I wasn’t coming _with you_.”  
  
“And how do you like _coming_ with me?”  
  
Bucky chuckle-groans, and presses a kiss into Clint’s neck.  
  
“Sorry, Buck. You make it too easy sometimes.” Clint twists, close enough to see Bucky’s pupils dilating at the sound of his name on Clint’s lips. “You know how I feel about you, right?”  
  
Bucky nods, eyes going soft.  
  
Clint picks distractedly at the label on his beer bottle for a moment before continuing. “I know you’re the strong, silent type. Dark and brooding is your default setting, I get it, but you haven’t really told me how _you_ feel.”  
  
A warm hand curves over his ear, fingers brushing through his hair. “Do you need me to tell you? Haven’t I shown you how I feel?”  
  
Clint’s eyes unfocus as the memories swim through his mind. The flood of more obvious, extremely enthusiastic and sweaty shows of affection wash through him before the images shift, and the smaller moments more akin to love than lust float to the surface. Little things like popping beer caps, fastening seat belts… stopping cars from turning him into an asphalt pancake. Clint smiles. Bucky is somehow always there when needed, even before Clint knows he needs him, like he has a gravitational pull and Bucky is ardently orbiting around him. Clint rests his forehead against Bucky’s. “Yeah, you have.”  
  
A chorus of laughter sounds from behind them. Clint drags his attention from Bucky, his eyes seeking the source of the noise. Peter and Bruce are in stitches as Nat, reclining against the arm of a three seater, throws and catches her plastic knife in one hand, legs wrapping around Steve’s waist. The pleased expression on her face at odds with the distressed look on Steve’s.  
  
Bucky sighs. “You think we should go save Steve?”  
  
Clint would rather stay where he is, truth be told, just him and Bucky, but he nods reluctantly. “I suppose it’s the least you can do, considering you set her on him in the first place.”  
  
Clint swivels on the chair and waits for the inevitable. Sure enough, two heartbeats later he’s being lifted and carried to the couch. Being wrapped in Bucky’s arms is becoming a comfortable, and comforting, custom. Clint never thought it possible, but he might actually miss his cast when it’s gone.  
  
When Bucky lowers himself to the couch, he doesn’t make a move to shift Clint off him. Instead, keeping Clint nestled in his lap, Bucky’s arms come to circle his waist. Clint doesn’t admit how much he likes this new turn of events out loud, just settles back against Bucky and sighs contentedly. He pulls in a deep breath through his nose. The scent of Bucky in his lungs more intoxicating than the beer in his belly.  
  
“You know, I’m starting to think Katniss broke that foot on purpose.” Tony’s eyes are on Clint, but his voice is directed at Nat.  
  
She releases Steve, her legs coming to fold under her. “You really think he’d pick a fight with a car in the hopes he’d land a leather-bound consolation prize?”  
  
“Nah, dude’s always falling all over himself. If you ask me, the accident _was_ an accident, but Barnes can’t resist that damsel in distress thing.”  
  
“_Sam_.”  
  
The way Steve can fit a whole conversation into a single word always amazes Clint.  
  
“He has a point, Steve,” Natasha offers, thoughtfully. “Bucky saved Rocket, he’s saved you more times than either of you can probably count…”  
  
“He tried to save Mr. Wilson in Germany!” Excitement rings loud in every syllable, Peter just happy to be able to contribute to the conversation.  
  
Sam scoffs.  
  
“What do you mean, _tried_?” Bucky grumbles.  
  
“Hey. Whoa. I’m sitting right here,” Clint splutters. Bucky’s arms tighten around his waist. “_We’re_ sitting right here. I am _not_ always tripping over myself, and Barnes does _not_ have a damsel kink.” He looks to Bucky. “Do you? Is that what the tape was really for?”  
  
Sam’s hands lift to cover Peter’s ears. “Hey, c’mon man, there are children present.”  
  
“When’s the last time someone _other_ than you hurt you, Funny Bones?”  
  
“For your information, Stark, it was, uh, um... Huh.”  
  
Knowing glances passing between six sets of eyes --seven sets, he corrects himself, throwing a quick look in Bucky’s direction-- is a humbling experience. It’s also a hell of a challenge. And Clint is always up for earning participation trophies.  
  
His lips quirk up. “This afternoon, actually.”  
  
Bruce, who had to this point been sitting back, nursing a beer, watching the verbal ping pong match in silent amusement, chuckles. “Should we ask who? Or will that result in Bucky’s confirmed kills increasing by one?”  
  
“It’s all good. I doubt he’d put his own name on the list.”  
  
"What? _I_ hurt you? When?”  
  
Clint shifts in Bucky’s lap discreetly.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Which reminds me...” Clint leans in, pressing his lips against Bucky’s ear. “After the punishment you gave my ass this afternoon, the least you can do is kiss it better tonight.”  
  
Bucky blushes, squirming under Clint. Across from them, Steve starts coughing, choking on his beer. Tony thumps him on the back.  
  
Ahh. Oops. Clint realizes, a moment too late, that Bucky isn’t the only more-than-human type being in the room.  
  
“Uh... Thanks for the party, it was great! But, um Aunt May will ground me if I’m late!” Peter jolts to his feet, his face so red he matches his suit.  
  
Shit. Clint scrunches his face and drops his head to his chest. Fuck all these fucking enhanced humans.  
  
Sam pushes to his feet his eyes moving from Peter to Steve, a matching set of superhuman embarrassment, before landing on Clint. “I’m not sure what I just missed, but I think I’ll take the kid home and make sure I’m not here when it happens again.”  
  
“You don’t have to. I’m fine, really. I can swing it.”  
  
Sam puts a hand on Peter’s back and guides him toward the elevator. “Man, you’re my ticket out of here. Stop talking and grab that bowl of candy.”  
  
Peter does as instructed, calling his goodnights over his shoulder and snatching up his backpack before Sam ushers him into the elevator.   
  
“So, what are you guys, anyway?” Tony gestures a vague circle in the air in front of them.  
  
“What are _you _guys, anyway?” Clint shoots back, his eyes flicking to Steve pointedly.  
  
“What are you talking about? We’re not---” Tony’s own eyes dart to Steve who narrows his at the direction Tony’s answer is taking, “--not, ah, talking about us.”  
  
Clint smirks at the uncharacteristic fumbling as Tony backpedals clumsily. “Hmm. That sounds good.” He looks to Bucky. “Us. We’re a _us_. Right, Barnes?”  
  
Bucky presses a soft kiss to his shoulder. “Right.”  
  
Nat laughs. “As a _us_, you might want to start calling Bucky by his first name.”  
  
Clint watches as the memories burn their way through Bucky’s cheeks and down into his lap, pressing up against Clint.  
  
“Can’t get too carried away.” Clint shifts on his muscular perch, a little more grind-y than necessary. Just because he could. “And speaking of being carried away, I think it’s time to call it a night. I need my beauty sleep.”  
  
He shifts in Bucky’s lap, arms wrapping around Bucky’s neck, enjoying the ride as they rise in one smooth motion.  
  
“Beauty sleep? There’s not enough hours in the --_ow!_” Tony rubs his ribs and glares at Steve. He huffs. “What about you, Dawn of the Dead? How serious is this for you? Do I need to prepare paperwork for HR?”  
  
Bucky stares down at Tony, who wilts a little under the gaze. “For my part, I’m happy to take whatever he’s giving.” His voice is somehow soft and firm at the same time, the tone sending a shiver running through Clint as much as the words themselves.  
  
“Well, that answers the next question about pitching and catching quite succinctly.” Tony ignores the look Steve shoots him.  
  
Oh for fuck’s sake. “Why is everyone suddenly so interested in my love life, anyway?”  
  
“Your _love_ life, Clint?” Nat’s inflection is impossible to miss.  
  
Tony and Bruce --and he expected more from Banner to be honest-- make high-pitched_ oooo_-ing sounds, their inner five year olds unlocked by way of alcohol.  
  
Clint throws imaginary daggers at Nat, feeling his ears burn anew. But when Bucky’s voice cuts clear through the teasing laughter and childish ribbing --“Yeah, _love_ life. _Our_ love life.”-- Clint’s eyes snap to Bucky’s so quickly they glitch, and he has to blink twice to clear the static.  
  
Bucky shifts Clint’s weight, and Clint clutches tighter at his neck, knowing Bucky well enough now to predict his next move. A shiny hand cups Clint’s jaw, a metal thumb stroking over his cheek as Bucky’s lips capture his, sweetly. Clint sighs into the kiss and mentally adds a single mark to the_ Bucky rescues that weren’t his fault_ column.  
  
Bucky nips at Clint’s tongue and he breaks the kiss with a breathless moan. He looks at Bucky for a long moment before gazing around at the faces below him..  
  
“So, my, uh--” Clint stalls, swallows roughly, and resets. “My… boyfriend--” His eyes flick to Bucky’s face, heart leaping in his chest at the eye-crinkling smile he finds there. At Bucky’s almost imperceptible nod, Clint looks back down to the amused faces of his friends. “My boyfriend has to escort me to my room now. This ol’ skeleton’s bones are aching, and there’s one in particular requires his utmost attention.”

Clint tangles his hands in Bucky’s hair as they move toward the elevator, pulling his mouth back down for another kiss, ignoring the mixture of cat calls and groaning behind them.  
  
. . .  
  
  
Clint lays on the bed, hands combing through dark hair again as Bucky’s tongue dances against his own. He locks his fingers in the strands as Bucky starts moving down his body, and tugs him back up.   
  
Bucky looks at him questioningly. “I thought you wanted me to kiss your, uh, owie, better?”  
  
A tremor runs through Clint at the pictures those words conjure in his mind. He shakes his head, as much to clear it as to signal his refusal. “Later. Right now, I want to take care of you.”  
  
Clint runs his hand down Bucky’s belly, wrapping around Bucky’s arousal as he recaptures those soft lips, opening his mouth as he closes his fist. Clint works his body to bring pleasure to Bucky’s, pouring everything from inside him, out, pushing it into Bucky through cracks borne from soft moans and horse cries tearing from his throat.  
  
The night is spent trading ecstasy: prolonged pleasure built slowly, giving way to leisurely floating descents from profound peaks. Bodies curling around each other, tangles of limbs anchoring them together as whispered words settle on sated skin. Clint being lulled to sleep by the strong beat of Bucky’s heart under his cheek.  
  
  
. . .  
  
  
Clint’s hips thrust up as he gasps into consciousness, falling back down onto the bed as the dream burns away behind his closed eyelids. Thrashing his head to the side, he bites at the pillow as overwhelming pleasure scorches along raw nerves, turning his skin feverish. He can’t choke back the whimper, his body still reeling even as his mind flares with disappointment. Again. He waits for reality to to press in on him, willing his heartbeat to slow, still feeling the ghost of Bucky’s tongue sliding hot and wet against him, and…  
  
_ Oh. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ Oh, fuck. _  
  
Clint thrusts deeper into Bucky’s mouth, slipping down his throat, Clint’s brain flaring with realization.  
  
“_B-Bucky! _ ”  
  
Clint’s every muscle constricts, and he arches off the bed, his cock feeding Bucky pulse after pulse of come, hands fisting long hair as Bucky swallows around him. He collapses onto the bed, utterly wrecked.  
  
Bucky releases Clint’s cock with a lewd _ pop _ before stalking up the bed and flopping onto him, pressing lingering kisses onto the sweat-slicked skin of his neck. “Good dreams?”  
  
Clint wriggles under Bucky’s weight. The heavy body shifts, Bucky rolling to his side, propping himself up on his arm, but not breaking contact. Clint sighs, sleepy and sated. “Reality is much, much better.”  
  
Bucky draws lazy patterns over Clint’s chest. “How are you feeling?”  
  
“I’ll tell you when I can feel my body again. I’m pretty sure you just sucked my brains out of my dick.”  
  
“Didn’t know you had brains to suck out.”  
  
Clint cocks an eyebrow. “Oh, so that’s how it is?  
  
Bucky grins at him.  
  
“Let’s see if you’re still smirking when I tear _ you _ apart at the seams.” Clint climbs onto Bucky, pushing him flat onto the mattress, straddling him. “Gonna make you beg, Barnes.”  
  
Bucky smiles up at him. “In your dreams, Barton.”  
  
Two bodies become one as Clint sinks down, seating himself on Bucky. He rocks forward, preening at Bucky’s low moan. He leans down, close enough for Bucky to feel the words blow over his skin. “In yours, too. _ Bucky_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so all things come to an end. Cue the "And they lived happily ever after (and increased their medical insurance)" sign before the credits roll.
> 
> [Completely, but not at all, unrelated, show of hands of anyone that would be interested in reading this story from Bucky's POV? Asking for a friend.]


End file.
